


carrying

by therestlessbrook



Series: kastle prompts [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Karen Page, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, This Was Supposed To Be A One Shot, and punisher season 3, as written by a Kastle fan, but somehow ended up as a hypothetical, daredevil season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-01-31 10:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: “Did you know that you’re pregnant?”Or, Karen will go to any lengths to protect her small family.





	1. carrying

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by an anon. Takes place after DD season 3 and the Punisher season 2.

“Did you know that you’re pregnant?”

The words are said the way a person might fling a grenade. Intending to do the maximum amount of damage.

And they do.

The voice on the phone is hoarse, low, and all too familiar. Wilson Fisk’s voice—amused and confident. Karen goes utterly cold, frozen in a moment of fear so absolute that she cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot react. When her phone flashed the unknown number, she let it go to voicemail. After all, she’s busy. But when she checks the voicemail, this is what’s waiting for her: a single question before the phone clicks silent.

Fisk.

Fisk knows. He is in prison, but he knows. And he surely has connections on the outside.

Karen sits behind her desk at work, unable to move. Her stomach swirls with nausea that has little to do with morning sickness.

He knows. How does he know? He must have paid off a doctor’s assistant or maybe he has someone searching her trash and found the positive test, or—

That will have to come later. For the moment, there are other concerns.

She makes a call with numb fingers. She brings the phone to her ear and listens to the ring. Again and again, then finally, when she is about to hang up, Frank says, “Hey. I was just getting off for lunch—”

“He knows,” Karen says. Her voice is barely a whisper. She wishes she could be fearless about this, be as ferocious as she was the day that she marched into Wilson Fisk’s hotel and told him exactly how James Wesley died. Back then, she didn’t have anything to lose. Now she has everything to lose. “Fisk knows. About the baby.”

The phone is silent for a moment. It’s the kind of silence before a bomb blast goes off.

Karen knows Frank has mixed feelings about her pregnancy—he told her as much. He’s as scared as she is, but they’re in this together. Whatever happens, they’re a team. They have been since he returned to New York, with more scars and barely contained exhaustion. He asked if he could stay on her couch for a few days until he managed to find a place.

He never ended up finding a place—and he stayed on her couch for less than a week.

She loves him and the life they’ve managed to build: an apartment with a decent kitchen, an oversized bed, and water pressure that is laughable, but no place is perfect. He works as a consultant for a private security firm while she writes for the Bulletin again. Ellison has been making noises about promoting her to an editorial position, which would be nightmarish but also would come with health benefits. When she realized she was pregnant, it was terrifying—but Karen felt the smallest bit of yearning for this, for a family. When she told him, Frank looked as though he might vomit, and he ended up going over to Curtis’ house for a good six hours to talk things out. When he returned, he looked resolute. _I don’t know if I can do this again,_ he said. _But I’m going to try._

And that was that.

She’s a little over two months along—just enough time to feel bloated and nauseated and weepy at the sight of puppies. There has been one doctor’s appointment and a new vitamin routine, but her life hasn’t changed that much.

But now, everything has changed.

Fisk knows.

And it doesn’t matter that he’s in prison or that Matt made him promise to stay away from Karen and Foggy. 

“I’m going to kill him,” says Frank. His voice is little more than a low growl.

Karen closes her eyes, squeezes her phone a little tighter. “I know.”


	2. sheltering

The day that Fisk threatens her, Karen doesn’t leave work. She can’t—it’s all reflex and instinct at this point, and she knows any deviation in her routine will draw attention. So she goes about her day, glances over copyedits on her news article, then gathers her things.

She goes to Ellison. He deserves more than to wonder where she’s gone.

“Hey, boss,” she says, and he looks up at her sharply.

“What do you want?” he says.

“Why would I want anything?” she replies.

“Because you only call me ‘boss’ when you need something.”

She smiles, but it’s brief. “I need time off. Medical emergency—I’m sorry, it came up suddenly.”

Concern etches itself across his face. “Oh. Shit. I mean—”

He must think she has cancer or something, judging from the look on his face. She has never requested leave before; he must think it’s dire. Which it is, but not in the way he’s thinking.

_I’m just pregnant with the Punisher’s child and a former mob boss is threatening me._

“I just need a week or two,” she says.

He nods. “Yeah, of course. You take care, okay? I get not telling the interns or something if you need to go to a hospital—they’ll insist on taking you flowers just to get out of the office. But if you need anything, you call me, all right? Stay in touch.”

She nods, grateful. 

Karen leaves the office, uses the stairs to get out of the building, and slips out the back.

Frank is there—she knew he would be. He stands in the shadow of a nearby awning, dressed in a heavy black coat with a hood drawn up over his face. He strides toward her, gaze flickering across the street. Aware, always searching for danger. Then he pulls her close.

She feels the slight stiffness against her stomach—he’s wearing a bulletproof vest beneath his shirt. It feels like being plunged back into the past, and she hates it.

His arm stays around her as they walk; it’s half affection and half precaution, because she knows the moment he sees a threat, he’ll angle himself to catch any bullets on his torso. It’s endearing and infuriating and it almost makes her tear up.

Pregnancy hormones, probably.

They end up getting in a car she doesn’t recognize—probably borrowed. He drives, and she watches the city slide past in silence. Finally, they end up across town, and Frank parks the car in an underground lot beneath a condo building. She raises her brows at him, and he gets out of the car. She goes with him, following him into an elevator.

The condos are nice—clean and bright, smelling of fresh industry and newness. Frank unlocks one on the seventh floor, then nods Karen inside. She goes.

It’s a bit sparse, but furnished. There’s a couch and bookshelf, but no tv. It looks like a single bedroom, with hardwood floors and the smallest of kitchens. Karen sets her purse on the counter, then looks at Frank.

“David bought this a few months ago,” he says. Then he shrugs. “You never really forget. Not even when you’re home and safe—he knows what it feels like to need a place to run, so he made sure he’d have one if his family needed it. Purchased it under a dead man’s name.”

“You went to David for help,” she says. She isn’t truly surprised; she knows that Frank trusts David, and if he needed help with this, then the hacker is a logical person to talk with.

Frank nods. “He offered this place to us, for as long as we need it. It can’t be connected to us, so Fisk won’t find it.”

He is oddly calm about all of this—but it puts her on edge. For Frank to be calm… it means he’s already settled on a plan. He has the look of a man with his marching orders, set on a path he knows he can’t turn away from.

“You want me to stay here,” she says. “Until you kill Fisk.”

Frank hesitates, then says, “Yes.”

She wants to protest, but she won’t. This isn’t just her life at risk—it’s their child’s, as well.

He seems to be waiting for an argument, but she merely leans on the counter, closing her eyes. She has been exhausted the past few weeks, and the adrenaline of the last few hours weighs heavily on her.

“We should call Matt,” she says.

Frank’s mouth tightens.

“He’d want to know,” she says.

“Murdock made his choice,” says Frank, a vein of ice in his voice. “He had Fisk at his mercy and let him go. No, we’re not bringing him in on this. He’d complicate matters, muddy them up with talk of redemption and—fuck that. Just… fuck that.”

Again, Karen thinks she should protest.

But her hand goes to her stomach, and she thinks of what Fisk threatened, and she can’t.

“I’ll deal with this,” says Frank. “Like it should have been dealt with months ago. I told him—back when we were in prison, I _told_ him. It was him or me, next time we met. This is a long time coming.”

“Just be careful,” she says. “Frank, please.”

He leans in and kisses her forehead, mouth soft and breaths a little shaky. “Not planning on you leaving you or this kid. But—listen, Karen.” He looks at her, face grave. “There’s food in the kitchen. Clothes in the dresser, medical supplies. Don’t leave this place unless it’s on fire. If I’m not back in two weeks, if you don’t hear from me, there’s a folder under the couch. Open it then. 

“I love you, okay?” he says, very quietly. “You remember that.”

She kisses him. It’s messy and rough; his hands are tight and her eyes are squeezed shut. There’s too much tension in the air, too much fear. “I love you,” she says against his mouth. He makes a small sound, then his lips move to her cheek. He kisses her, then he drops to his knees. She’s startled by the sudden movement and puts one hand on his shoulder to steady herself. He rests his forehead against her stomach, and he’s murmuring something she can’t quite catch.

Their child—he’s talking to them, and suddenly she can’t see clearly. Her eyes are swimming and throat closed up.

Frank kisses her clothed stomach, then rises to his feet.

There isn’t anything left to say—all they can do is repeat things they’ve already said: _I love you, be careful, I love you._ Karen bites back on the words because she knows she can’t say them without tears.

He leaves quickly, after that.

* * *

The waiting is the worst she’s ever lived through.

Karen isn’t hungry, but she forces herself to eat at least two meals a day. There are canned foods, frozen meals, and the usual staples. On the first night, Karen ends up eating a bag of microwaved popcorn right out of the bag, sitting at the counter and trying to read one of the pulpy science fiction books that David left on the shelf. She can see a little of how he tried to prepare: there are books for all ages, along with clothing for a woman, a man, and teenagers. A first aid kit. Plenty of food. A box of burner phones, chargers, and those temporary credit cards people can pre-load. It’s a place meant for someone to run.

On the second day, she opens up her emails and finds several from work: Ellison confirming she is on medical leave; a few coworkers asking if she’s sick and if they can bring chicken soup or something; one from Foggy, inquiring if she’s available for drinks. He’s been busy with Matt. Nelson & Murdock, Attempt Number Two has gone better than their first one, and sometimes Karen entertains thoughts of what life would be like if she accepted the offer to be part of their firm. It might be nice—but she’s happy at the Bulletin.

She wants to see both of them again, and wonders if she’ll get the chance.

On the third day, she goes through two full books. Then she takes a lukewarm bath and gazes down at her stomach, trying to see any change. None that she can tell—except she’s exhausted and slightly queasy when she thinks about the smell of dish soap.

Her phone remains on, charged, and ready—but there’s no calls or texts from Frank. She doesn’t expect them, but still—she watches. Just in case.

On the fourth day, Karen finds the envelope beneath the couch.

She means to wait the full two weeks—she does. But she knows herself, and curiosity will probably be what gets her killed, so she ends up digging out the large manila folder.

She opens it, then she has to sit down. 

Papers. It’s full of papers. First—a passport. It is her picture but the name is _Karrin Castle_. The birthdate is false, making her a year younger, and according to the address she lives in Washington state. She flicks to the next sheet and finds a birth certificate for her, a social security card, and a falsified work history. There is another sheaf of paper—and she realizes it’s the information for a bank account under her false name.

It’s everything she needs to run. To set up a new life for herself.

_If I’m not back in two weeks, if you don’t hear from me, there’s a folder under the couch. Open it then._

The very last paper is folded over. It looks as if someone tore it out of notebook, and she recognizes the handwriting at once.

She sees the first line: _Karen, if you’re reading this, I’m—_

She tears her eyes away. She can’t read this. She _can’t._ She folds it over again and shoves it back into the envelope.

This is Frank’s last gift to her.

She puts the envelope beneath the couch, then goes into the bathroom and vomits up everything she ate for breakfast. When she’s done, she washes out her mouth with water and ends up lying in bed, wishing to God she hadn’t opened the files.

He’ll come back.

He has to.

* * *

Six days after Frank goes to kill Fisk, her phone rings.

It’s Frank’s cell. She sees his familiar name flash on the screen: _Pete_. Just in case anyone ever gets ahold of her phone.

She bolts upright—she is taking a nap on the couch, a book across her lap—and answers the call at once. “Yes?”

“Hello, Ms. Page.”

It feels like every cell in her body turns to ice. Nausea climbs up her belly, and she bites down on her lip hard to hold it back.

“Fisk,” she says, and her voice comes out cold and even. Thank fuck.

Fisk chuckles, and the sound makes every hair on her arms stand on end. It’s a low, victorious sound and she hates it. “Not letting calls go to voicemail this time. Smart.”

Fisk has Frank’s cell phone.

That means nothing, she tells herself. It’s nothing. It could have been stolen from him, might have—

“You’re not at your apartment,” Fisk says. “Pity, it would have made things easier.”

She grits her teeth. “You’re supposed to be in jail.”

“Oh, I am,” he says lightly. “At least according to every video feed and prison guard. I am very much in jail.” He lets out a breath. “You and your friends saw to that. But for certain… individuals, I am willing to slip my leash, if only for a few hours.”

“A few hours,” she repeats.

“It’s how long you have to save your friend,” says Fisk. “I won’t insult your intelligence, Ms. Page. We both know why I am calling. I have Mr. Castle, and you are going to come to free him. Let us do away with pretense.”

“Put him on the phone,” says Karen, because she knows how this is supposed to work.

There’s a shuffle, fingers brushing across the speaker, then a low murmuring. Silence—then the thud of fist against flesh. Karen’s whole body jerks with the noise, as if she were the one struck. “Talk,” says Fisk—not to her. There’s only silence. “Always so stubborn.”

Another blow, and a gasp. There’s the smallest noise that accompanies the inhalation, and Karen knows it. She has heard that voice under every circumstance imaginable—in moments of terror, quiet mornings, the involuntary breath when she brushes his skin with cold fingers.

She doesn’t need him to speak to know that it’s him.

“Frank,” she whispers.

Finally, there’s a rasp. “Don’t,” he says, and she knows there’s blood in his mouth. She can hear the slickness of it.

He doesn’t have to say the full sentence. She understands.

_Don’t come after me._

“You raise them right, yeah?” The words seem to pour out of him, the edges running together. “Tell ‘em their daddy loved them. But you stay away from this, take the envelope and—”

His voice fades away, as if the phone retreats.

He wants her to run. To take the money and the papers and escape to some distant reaches of the world. To be a single mom to a kid who’ll probably inherit their dad’s dark eyes and stubborn disposition. And part of her wants to—to get as far away from Fisk and his corruption as she can. But even if she does run, she’ll never escape him. Not truly. Every shadow, every nightmare—Fisk will be there.

There is another crackle of noise, then Fisk’s voice. “Quite the family man, isn’t he?” Fisk sounds quietly amused, always in control. It makes her want to tear into him with her nails, with her teeth. He has taken her family, threatened her unborn child.

She is going to kill him.

The certainty settles into her bones.

“Where?” she says, and her voice is cold and even as steel.

Fisk names an address.

* * *

She takes her gun, because it’s expected.

Karen drives to an abandoned warehouse—it isn’t where Frank’s being kept, because Fisk is a professional. But there’s a man waiting for her. He takes her purse and her gun, tosses both into a dumpster, then looks her over. She is wearing a loose sweatshirt—one of Frank’s— and dark leggings. No earrings, but there is a thin length of silver at her neck. He looks like a security guard of some kind; he has the right hair for it, and he looks a bit uncomfortable with the idea of shoving her into the car. He glares instead, as if all of his is her fault, and maybe it is. Maybe he’s being blackmailed by Fisk. It doesn’t matter. He is part of this.

And he doesn’t pat her down.

Karen knows what she looks like: big blue eyes, long-limbed. More doe than wolf.

She gets into the back of the car, hands unbound and eyes straight ahead.

The man drives through the city. Karen watches in silence, and after half an hour, they end up at the Red Hook Grain Terminal. An abandoned grain elevator, and one of New York’s more well-known old buildings. Fisk must have paid some people off, made sure the cameras are disrupted. The building is huge, a hulking mass that looms over the water of the Gowanus Canal. It’s probably where Fisk intends to dump their bodies.

The driver slows the the car, puts it in park, then begins to unfasten his seatbelt.

He never quite manages.

Because the thin silver necklace Karen wears is not a necklace at all, but a length of silver wire. Her mother’s necklace remains at home, where it belongs.

Karen unspools the wire. It gleams between her fingertips.

Before the man can open the car door, she lunges, wraps the wire around his throat and throws her weight backward.

Karen has never strangled a man, but it isn’t that hard. There’s a lot of thrashing and noise and blood runs down into the collar of his shirt and she tries not to look. She can smell the copper and the bile, the panic filling the small space of the car. She hates it, thinks she might be sick, but bites down hard on her own tongue. When the man goes still, Karen has to open the door quickly because she fears she’ll vomit, otherwise.

Karen Page has left death in her wake before, but it was never this deliberate. She has never walked into a situation knowing that someone will die.

She has never _wanted_ it before.

She always thought motherhood was something sweet, soft and kind, but no—it is bloody and fierce. All bared teeth and animal instincts.

When the man is dead, she takes his gun and his phone. She checks the gun. It’s fully loaded—a nine mil, a bit heavier than her own pistol. She hurries toward the building in bursts of speed, keeping low to the ground. Her heartbeat is fast but steady, and she can feel the adrenaline spiking through her.

She goes in through a side door, gun aimed at the cement floor. The space is all rusted steel and huge cement columns. She listens, hears the low rumble of voices, and begins creeping toward them. There is plenty of cover—the columns are thick enough to block gunfire, and more than wide enough to hide her. She scurries from cover to cover, her way illuminated by sunlight filtering through dirty, cracked windows. She pulls the man’s phone out of her pocket, makes sure it isn’t silenced, then sets it carefully on the floor, tucked a little out of sight. Then she moves sideways, circling around a little, before crouching beneath a broken bit of machinery. She breathes, then raises herself just enough from a crouch to look at the scene before her.

There are three figures. One of them is broad and tall, wearing a fine suit. Fisk. He look as he always has, but there is a fresh scar on his face. She isn’t sure how he’s out of prison, but she knows this much—the guards are definitely in on it. There is one of them beside Fisk, wearing riot gear and armed to the teeth. He looks bored with the whole thing, arms crossed and gaze a little distant. As for the last man—

He’s bound to a chair. Head slightly bowed, breath audible between his blood-stained teeth.

Frank.

Her heart gives a painful throb.

“—late,” Fisk is saying. “He should’ve called in by now.”

“He’s got the girl,” says the guard. “He texted us that much. He probably just hit traffic.”

Frank makes a slight noise—it’s small, but Karen hears it.

Fisk does, too. “Something to say, Mr. Castle?” he says, stepping closer to Frank.

Frank’s head tilts back, and she can see a bruise along his mouth, hear the wet hitch in his breathing when he says, “You know everything I have to say.”

Fisk smiles, then drives a fist into Frank’s gut. It looks casually savage, and Frank doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Not going to beg?” says Fisk. “If it were me, I’d beg. But then again, I know what it feels like… to love. Do you?” He squats down in front of Frank, so they’re at eye level. “I always thought love would be like those movies—all starry eyes and beauty. No one ever told me how much it can hurt. To be separated from them.

“I was going to kill you first,” he says, still casual. “Make Ms. Page watch. She took someone from me, you know. Or maybe you didn’t. So I was going to take someone from her. But… I don’t know anymore. I think there’s something poetic in shooting you both at the same time. Not in the heart—no. But the stomach, perhaps.”

Frank’s jaw clenches hard.

“You could watch each other bleed out,” says Fisk. “One final moment together. At least the child will die quickly—I’m not so heartless.”

Frank doesn’t move, but when he speaks, his voice thrums with quiet, barely caged fury. “You will be when I’m done with you. I’ve killed better men than you.”

“Better men, maybe,” says Fisk. “But not as well-connected.”

Karen waits. She has to—she can’t just rush in there and start shooting. She isn’t Frank; she doesn’t have his skills. So she waits and listens to Frank’s breathing and tries to keep her heartbeat steady. Another five minutes passes, and then Fisk says, irritated, “Call him again.”

The guard doesn’t quite make a sighing sound, but it’s close. Karen imagines the guard pulling out his own phone, hitting a recent call.

She flicks the safety off the gun, then takes it in both hands, and waits.

A ringtone begins playing. It’s a default one, the chipper chimes so familiar that it almost makes Karen want to reach for her own phone. But it’s at the bottom of a dumpster, and she is in a warehouse holding a gun. She listens to a confused inhalation of breath. “What the fuck,” the man murmurs, and then footsteps. Someone walking toward the phone she carefully set behind a column.

Fisk understands first. “Wait—”

But the man is already there, walking around the column, kneeling for the phone. He doesn’t see Karen until she has the shot lined up and pulls the trigger twice.

The gunshots crack off the cement walls, deafening her. It takes a few moments before she can hear Fisk’s snarls, the sound of someone straining against a chair, and her own labored breathing. It takes another minute before Fisk’s voice rings out.

“Stand up or I shoot Mr. Castle right now.” 

Karen is shaking but she manages to stand.

Fisk has a gun pressed to the underside of Frank’s jaw, and his face is set in lines of irritation. He isn’t furious—more frustrated. Like a man who doesn’t understand why the world hasn’t bent itself to his will.

Frank looks as though he’s watching his nightmares play out in real time.

“Put your weapon on the floor, Ms. Page,” says Fisk.

Karen doesn’t move. “Not until you understand what’s at risk.”

Fisk’s eyes narrow, but he inclines his head a little. “Tell me, then.”

“I have a file on your wife,” says Karen. “It’s in a safety deposit box. The key is in my pocket. If I vanish for longer than two weeks, my lawyers have instructions to open that box with their copy of the key and bring those files to the police. There’s enough information to put her behind bars for decades.”

A spasm goes across Fisk’s face—the calm facade cracking for a few seconds before he manages to wrench it back into place. “What do you propose?”

“I give you the key and the deposit box number,” she says. “You let us leave.”

He considers for a few moments. Karen tries to keep her eyes on Fisk, but her gaze strays back to Frank. His whole body is straining toward her, the chair shaking slightly. She loves him—God, she loves him so dearly and the sight of him bloodied and bound makes her feel like the world is off kilter. She won’t let him be taken from her.

“You make a compelling argument, Ms. Page,” says Fisk. “I propose a counter offer—Mr. Castle’s freedom, if not your own. He walks free in exchange for the key and the box. As for yourself…” His mouth pulls into a tight smile. “Surely that’s not so great a price, is it? You’ve brought so much death to those around you. Mr. Urich, Mrs. Cardenas, James Wesley. Where you walk, a bloody trail follows behind. You must feel some… guilt for that. I could make it stop.”

“No,” says Frank, speaking for the first time. His words are clipped, hindered by the gun pressed tight against his jaw. “You want someone dead, you kill me. You kill me, and you leave her alone, you sack of shit.”

“A slightly less compelling argument,” says Fisk. He gives Karen a flat look. “I wonder what you see in him, honestly. Unless all you wanted was a guard dog.”

She meets Frank’s eyes. She doesn’t know what she looks like, but all of the blood seems to leave his face. He has always been good at guessing what she’ll do, and he knows now. He looks frantic, terrified.

“Do I have your word?” she says softly. “You’ll let him go?”

Fisk nods. “Agreed.”

She inhales. “Box 4298. Miller Savings. The key is in my sweatshirt pocket.”

There is a heartbeat of quiet, then Fisk says, “Thank you.”

He lifts the gun from Frank and Karen sees the barrel swing up.

A scream tears through the room. Guttural and pained—and not hers.

She feels bullets slam into her. One hits just beneath her collarbone, and the second along her ribs. It hurts more than she expected; she is spun around and falls, legs giving out. She manages to land on her side, one arm still around her belly. Her hair spills across her face, and she’s glad for it; she doesn’t have to see Frank’s expression.

Frank makes a sound like he’s been gutted. He says her name again and again, and for every moment she does not answer, his voice frays a little more. The chair squeaks and there’s a screech, like Frank has tried so hard to get to her that he’s tearing at the metal. But there’s no denial, no whispered pleas for any of this to be different than what it is. Karen realizes that part of him probably expected something like this—he’s been waiting for the universe to collapse in on him again.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Castle,” says Fisk. “You’ll see her soon. I just need to get—”

She hears footsteps and feels the shadow of Fisk fall over her.

“Don’t touch her.” Frank’s snarl is almost inhuman with fury. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

Karen senses more than sees Fisk begin to kneel beside her. To get the key out of her pocket.

She moves faster than thought. Her right arm swings up, finger on the trigger of her stolen gun. Fisk is barely three feet away—and while he may be wearing body armor, his head is unprotected. She sights down her gun, to the place between his brows.

She pulls the trigger.

His head jerks as if she backhanded him, and she looks away before she can see too much of the gore. Fisk goes slack, body folding in on itself, and then he collapses beside her.

She gets to her feet. She’s unsteady, shaking too hard to be holding a gun safely. She sets it on the floor before staggering toward Frank. He looks at her like he expects her to drop dead at any moment, and he keeps fighting the bonds, trying to get to her. The chair squeaks beneath him. She drops into a crouch, and it takes a few tries to find the edge of the duct tape, to begin pulling it free. 

The moment he can move his hands, he is ripping at his ankles, and then he’s on the floor in front of her, pulling at her sweatshirt. Trying to find the wounds, to assess the damage. “Hey,” she says. “I’m okay. Frank, I’m okay.”

His fingers go still; she watches as his expression shifts from unadulterated panic into confusion, then relief. His thumb strokes the edge of the bulletproof vest she put on beneath his sweatshirt. It’s heavy and awkward, and she could never have worn her own clothes over it.

Two deformed rounds clink delicately to the cement floor.

She is going to be badly bruised, but she’s alive.

She killed three men tonight—and perhaps that should haunt her, but it doesn’t.

“Goddammit, Karen,” Frank whispers. “I watched you—goddammit. If he’d aimed anywhere else—”

But Karen knew Fisk wouldn’t. She took part of his heart—she knew Fisk would aim for hers.

Even so, she understands Frank’s churning fear and anger. She thought him dead once, too.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get you out.”

He presses his face against the crook of her shoulder and remains there, holding her tight, for several moments. Finally, he rises to his feet, pulling her with him. They’re both shaking, both injured, but they’re still breathing.

* * *

He insists on taking her to a hospital.

They stumble into the ER, leaning on one another, and Karen says they were mugged. Frank’s bruises and split lip draws more eyes, but the moment Karen says she’s pregnant and took blows to the torso, the nurse on duty switches his attention to her. She’s thoroughly examined, and after a few hours, she finds herself sitting in a hospital bed, holding a print-out of an ultrasound.

Frank walks into her room. His left arm is in a sling and there’s a bandage on his cheek. “Dislocated shoulder,” he says, when he sees her flash of concern. “Few cracked ribs. I’ll be fine.” He sits beside her bed, and she leans into him. His good arm goes around her, and she feels a small shake wrack through him—like a shudder of relief. He breathes, and she closes her eyes. It’s peaceful for a few moments, then he sees the paper on her lap. He pulls back, looks down at it, then at her.

She holds it out to him.

His fingers are unsteady when he takes the picture.

It doesn’t look like a baby yet. It looks like an alien peanut.

“So that’s them, huh,” he says quietly.

There’ll be things to deal with—her purse is gone, with her gun and her phone and wallet; there is evidence of both of them at the scene of Fisk’s murder; Matt will need to be told. But for now, all of that seems very far away.

“I knew you were going to come the moment they managed to bring me down.” He closes his eyes. “You should’ve run. Never looked back, never given me a second thought.”

“That would’ve been hard,” she says, and while her voice sounds better, it still doesn’t sound normal. “Considering you made my new name Karrin Castle.”

He sighs. “I just—Castiglione is too rare. Castle’s common, at least. And I wanted…”

She understands. He wanted part of him with her. As if they don’t belong to one another already.

The ultrasound shakes in his hand. “If—if we’re ever in danger again, you need to run, Karen. I can’t lose my family again. I just fucking can’t.”

She puts her arms around him. Gently, mindful of his injuries. “Neither can I,” she says simply.


	3. willing

A week after he told Karen Page he loved her, Frank Castle wrote a letter.

Once, he used to put pen to paper before dangerous missions. He’d tell Maria that he loved her, tell the kids to be good and help their mom, then slip the letters among his things and hope that they’d never be sent home. The thought of his wife attending his funeral always made his stomach clench. It wasn’t the dying that scared him, but rather, leaving his family behind.

He never thought it’d be the other way around.

Fuck, he never even went to their funerals. He was in the hospital, a bullet hole through his skull, under the name John Doe.

He never gave those old letters any thought until he found himself on Karen Page’s doorstep, bruised and exhausted, too weary to stay away. He half-expected her to slam the door in his face. It’s what he would have deserved. But instead her eyes flashed wide and she took him by the hand, gently ushering him indoors. It was that touch that undid him—the way she pulled him into the safety of her home with no thought for the danger that might follow.

He slept on her couch for five nights—and on the sixth, he found himself in her bed. There was a whispered confession into her hair, fingers sweeping along her back, and he laid himself bare before her.

_I love you._

_Then stay_ , she said.

He had.

And the next week, he wrote another letter. Just in case.

It was along the same gist as those ones he penned before, telling Karen that he loved her, if something happened to him to live her life and go on. He tucked the letter into a book that he knew she would never open—an old copy of _Moby Dick_ that she teased him about owning. She’d only pick it up if something happened to him, if she needed to sort through his belongings.

And life went on.

He did odd jobs until David recommended him for a consulting position at a private security firm. Frank never met with clients—rather, he looked over blueprints of buildings for tactical strategies, helped train new bodyguards in hand to hand, and kept his beard trimmed. Frank Castle may have been dead, but Pete Castiglione was a quiet, former marine whom everyone liked but no one truly knew.

Karen worked at the Bulletin, having turned down the opportunity to be with Nelson and Murdock a second time. Slowly, she and Frank reshaped their lives around one another. Found a bigger apartment, one with a kingsized bed and a decent kitchen. There was talk of getting a dog, but they were both too busy, at least for the moment. It was a good life, and Frank found himself settling into it.

They were together for a year and a half before he found her in the bathroom, so pale that he thought she must have been ill. He came rushing into the room, the world sharpened with adrenaline. His gaze went to the counter and he saw it—the pregnancy test sitting there. It had come up positive.

 _I must have forgotten to take a day or two of my birth control,_ she said, voice shaking. _Shit. I—I didn’t mean to—_

And he realized that she was terrified, apologies already on her tongue. He knelt beside her, arms around her waist as she sat on the edge of the bathtub, unsure of what to say—so he remained silent. She clung to him, as if she was scared he would leave, and fuck, that hurt. Her thinking that he would just walk out.

They didn’t speak about it until after she went for a doctor’s appointment. When she emerged with a prescription for prenatal vitamins, he knew that she’d made up her mind. _If—if you don’t want this, I’d understand,_ she said. _You didn’t sign up to be a dad again._

It was true; he never had any intention of having another family. But then again, he’d never intended to fall for her, to build a life, to even survive his own crusade.

Intentions mattered for very little, in his experience. Actions were what counted.

He ended up at Curt’s place for half a day, pacing back and forth in his friend’s narrow kitchen. Confessing his fears, because he didn’t want to burden Karen with them. _What if I can’t do this again_ , he said. _I’m fucked to hell._

Curt cut him off after the third cup of coffee, saying he looked wild-eyed enough without the caffeine. _I don’t think parenthood is a skill you lose, man. Besides, don’t the Lieberman kids love you?_

_Their dad faked his death, twice. Their judgment’s a little screwed up._

Curt laughed at that. _Only bad parents don’t question their ability to parent. The fact you’re currently having a panic attack? Actually a good sign. It means you care._

_Of course I fucking care. It’s my kid—_

And the words stuttered out, because they were true. This _was_ his kid.

His mind was made up, even before he’d been aware the decision was settled.

He went back to Karen, remembering what she had said that first night.

_Stay._

So he did. The rest, he figured, would work itself out.

That was until Fisk made a single call and blew everything to hell.

* * *

_Karen, if you’re reading this, I’m gone._

_I’m not going to tell you not to grieve because honestly that’s bullshit. I know you love me, so losing me is going to hurt. But I also you know you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, and you’re going to get through this._

_I remember when I first started to get to know Sarah, David’s wife. She was still mourning him. I remember she said that she didn’t know how someone went on after losing family, and I told her the only way through it is to find someone to care about. Even back then, I think some part of me knew it was going to be you. And for you, it’s going to be this kid. I’m sorry you’re going to have to raise them alone. But you can and you’re going to be a damn good mother. You’re going to protect them and raise them and make sure they know they’re loved, because that’s the kind of person you are. Whatever stories you tell them about me will probably be too flattering and paint me in a far better light than I deserve._

_You gave me a life again and I’ve tried to do the same for you. There’s enough money and papers for you to go wherever you need to. Get out of New York, get out of Fisk’s reach. Find a safe place. If you need help, contact Curt or David or Madani._

_Live your life, Karen. Find a new home. Fall in love again. Get that dog we talked about. Just live, okay?_

_I love you. Take care._

_\- Frank_

* * *

Matt Murdock shows up the night after Fisk is killed.

Frank sits beside Karen; she’s asleep, still beneath the covers. Her hair is tied back and she wears a loose t-shirt. The neckline has ridden down, and he can see the bruise blooming just beneath her collarbone. There is another such mark along her ribs, just beneath her left breast. For all that armor can keep smaller rounds from puncturing the body, they cannot stop the kinetic force behind such a blow. She’s going to be sore for weeks.

His gaze flickers over her face, relaxed in sleep. She crashed five minutes after they returned home, and he’s glad for it. She needs the rest.

He’ll sleep later. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the jerk and spasm of her body when Fisk pulled the trigger, the way she spun around and hit the floor hard, how she was sprawled there, hair a golden tangle across her face, and the way she didn’t rise, didn’t answer when he screamed her name.

Fuck. He doesn’t even need to be asleep to have nightmares.

He has to remind himself that they both made it through. They’re alive, the baby’s fine, and Fisk is—

Frank isn’t quite sure what happened to Fisk’s body. He left a voicemail on Madani’s cell and then got out of there. He wasn’t in much of a state to do anything about the spatters of his blood that Fisk left on the floor, nor the shell casings, nor the fingerprints. If the crime leads back to Karen or Frank… he will deal with that later.

His left arm is slung tightly against his torso; he can still feel the ache of the dislocated joint and his ribs protest with every breath. The ER nurses tried to give him painkillers, but he refused them all. He wants to be alert.

His precaution seems justified when a noise comes through the cracked bedroom door—a rapping from the living room.

Frank’s heartbeat quickens, and he rises silently from the bed. He takes the loaded handgun from the bedside table, and he slips into the shadow of the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He keeps close to the wall, gaze sharp and ears straining as he prowls into the living room.

There is someone at the fire escape. Frank raises the gun—until he sees the outline of horns.

_Of fucking course._

Frank sets the gun on the coffee table, then goes to the window and pulls it open.

“What?” he says.

Murdock steps into the living room and shuts the window behind him. He is dressed in his devil get-up, which will never not seem vaguely ridiculous to Frank. Armor, he can understand. A bright red suit with horns is something else, though.

“You killed him,” Murdock says. There’s no question, no hesitation.

Frank sits down at the couch. The brief burst of adrenaline fades from his system. Murdock won’t attack him, not here and not now. Not with Karen in the next room and—Frank grudgingly admits—Murdock isn’t the type to attack an injured man. He’s too stubbornly noble for that.

“What do you know?” asks Frank.

Murdock considers him for a moment. “The police found a body. Three bodies, actually. Two were prison guards—the last, an unnamed inmate. But I heard enough to know who it was. A government agency has been keeping them off the scene, though. I heard something about Homeland getting involved.”

Frank breathes a little easier. “Good.” Madani got his message—and she’s pulled a few strings. Technically, the CIA can’t operate on US soil, but Homeland has no such restrictions. They’ll deal with the aftermath.

Murdock bristles. “Good? There was a prison guard strangled to death in a stolen car. Another guard dead from bullet wounds. And Fisk—as far as I can tell, he was shot point blank. You call that good? You executed—”

“And what if I did?” says Frank. Let Murdock think he did it—he doesn’t give a damn. He would have done it, given half a chance. “Fisk was a murderer, a mob boss, and he was pulling strings even from inside prison.”

“Those guards—”

“Were corrupt enough to let him walk free for hours at a time,” Frank says. “They took his money, they knew what they were getting into.”

“So they accepted a bribe,” snaps Murdock. “It doesn’t mean they deserved to die—”

Frank is on his feet before consciously aware of it.

He stands in front of Murdock, his good arm tensed and jaw clenched. “Yes, they damn well did. He threatened Karen. He called her at work and—”

“ _So you hunted them down?_ ”

“I did.” Karen’s voice comes from the hallway. Frank looks over sharply. She stands there, dressed in that loose t-shirt and shorts, mussed hair pulled back. She has arranged her shirt so the bruises are hidden, and her crossed arms are tight against her belly. 

Frank walks around the couch to stand beside her. “Hey,” he says. “You don’t need to be up for this.” 

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. 

“You should go back to bed.” He’ll fend of Murdock if he has to. There’s still enough anger left in him to almost be glad for chance to vent some of it.

But Karen’s eyes are on Murdock. “I did it,” she says. “I killed all of them.”

Murdock’s jaw flexes, as if he is trying to reply but can’t think of anything to say. He seems to want to disbelieve it, but the truth of her words is unmistakable. “Karen,” he finally manages, sounding a little lost, a little bewildered.

“They kidnapped Frank,” she says. “They were going to kill him. I—I did what I had to do.”

“You could have called me,” says Murdock, taking a step forward. “You could have called the cops, Mahoney, or—”

“You know the kind of reach Fisk had,” replies Karen. “He had the FBI in his pocket—you really think it’d be that hard for him to monitor calls? Place bugs? I couldn’t risk it. Not with…” Her arms tighten even more. “It wasn’t the right thing to do, I know. But it was the only thing I could do.”

“We talked about this,” says Murdock. “Back when it was Fisk coming after all of us, you and Foggy—you were both so determined that I shouldn’t…” His voice drifts off and he tilts his head slightly. As if listening for something Frank can’t hear. He takes half a step toward Karen, then goes still.

And abruptly, Frank remembers one of those pamphlets sitting beside Karen’s new vitamins—one that says that most fetal heartbeats can be detected around eight weeks.

Murdock visibly blanches. And even if his gaze doesn’t move, Frank can sense Murdock’s attention darting between Karen, to Frank, then back again. Putting two and two together… 

“You’re pregnant,” says Murdock, very quietly. 

Karen swallows. “Yes.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “Fisk knew.”

“Shit.” Murdock turns away, pacing a few restless steps.

Frank rests his good hand at the small of Karen’s back. He can feel her shaking slightly, and he hates Murdock a little for coming here, tonight of all nights.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Murdock, finally. 

Karen takes a breath. “I was going to. But—it’s still early. No one knows yet. Just us.”

“But Fisk found out.” Murdock’s voice goes a little rougher. “He found out, and he couldn’t resist trying to hurt you.” He turns so that his back is to them, but Frank can see the tension in his shoulders. “Sometimes I think I should have just done it. Gotten it over with.”

“No, Matt,” says Karen quietly. “You couldn’t have. You wouldn’t be you, otherwise.” She takes a step toward Murdock. “I killed them. I’d do it again if I had to—and maybe that makes me a bad person.”

“You’re not a bad person, Karen,” says Murdock, turning to face her. The corners of his mouth quirk up. “You have questionable taste in friends, but you’re not a bad person.” The tone of his voice makes it clear he’s speaking as much about himself as Frank—which only makes Frank snort quietly.

Karen looks so relieves that she sways a little on her feet.

“It’s one in the morning,” says Frank. “You two can talk this out tomorrow, if you still want to debate morality. In the meantime, we’re going back to bed.”

Karen gives him a tolerantly irritated look, then reaches for Murdock’s hand. She squeezes it, then steps back.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” says Murdock. A nod toward Frank. “Both of you.”

He ends up leaving through the window like a dramatic asshole, and Frank locks it behind him. Karen stands there, looking drawn and a little defeated, as if this encounter took too much from her. “Sleep,” says Frank, and they return to the bedroom.

“He’s going to be sitting on the roof for the rest of the night,” Karen murmurs. “I hope you know that.”

“Good.” Frank gets under the covers this time. “He can keep watch while we get some rest. Do something useful for once.”

“He can also probably hear you.”

“I know.” Frank watches as she reaches over and flicks off the bedside lamp. She winces as she lays down. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore,” she admits. “Like someone hit me with a hammer. You?”

“I’m fine.” He’ll sleep on his back to protect his shoulder, but it’s nothing.

She rolls onto her side, so she faces him. In the dim light, he can just make out the hard set of her mouth. And he knows what she is thinking, even if she doesn’t say it.

“You’re not a bad person,” he says softly. “Think about how it looks from the outside. Fisk shot a pregnant woman—twice. If you hadn’t done it, I sure as hell would have.”

“I strangled a man.”

“Again, a man who was delivering a pregnant, unarmed woman to a known murderer.”

“I wasn’t completely unarmed.”

“That’s my girl.” He kisses the soft place beside her eye. She closes both of them, leans into the touch. 

She says, “I don’t feel guilty. And that’s the worst part—I know I should.”

“Fuck that.” He wraps his arm around her, pulling her close. She rests her head on his good shoulder, and her weight is a gentle comfort.

For a few minutes, they don’t speak. He can feel Karen slowly relaxing, the tension slipping out of her. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier. “I found your letter in that folder.”

His heart thuds a little unsteadily. “You read it?”

“No.” Her fingers knot in his shirt. “I got about four words in—but I couldn’t. I don’t ever want to read something like that again.”

“Ah.” He smiles, a bit wryly. “Don’t open _Moby Dick_ then, all right?”

“Frank.” Her voice has a note of warning in it.

“It was something I did,” he says. “Back when I was deployed. Those of us with families wrote letters before high risk missions. When I moved in—I thought that if something were to happen to me. You should at least have some kind of last message. The one I put in the folder was new. Took… new circumstances into account.” His fingers drift lower, settling on her stomach.

She turns her head a little, meeting his eyes. “What’d it say? The broad strokes, I mean.”

His arm tightens around her. “Nothing I haven’t said before.”

She turns into him, kissing his chest. Her hair tickles his neck a little, and she smells like gunpowder and the hospital. “I love you, too,” she says quietly.

He listens to her breaths as they shift into sleep and feels her go slack beside him. Her exhaustion is contagious; Frank blinks up at the ceiling, the world gone fuzzy at the edges.

He closes his eyes and finally slips away.


	4. keeping

The day after Karen and Frank return home, there’s a knock at the door.

Karen is in the kitchen, making a cup of herbal tea, when she hears the sound. She goes still, heart throbbing with sudden fear. Frank isn’t in the apartment—and she hates that her first instinct upon hearing someone at the door is to reach for her gun.

She forces herself to take a breath, and then another. Deep—from the belly. Then she takes a step toward the apartment door. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” says Foggy’s familiar voice.

All of her tense muscles release at once. Karen unlocks the deadbolt, then opens the door.

Foggy stands there. He has a paper bag in one hand, and he lifts it like an offering.

“I brought corned beef,” he says.

Which honestly isn’t the weirdest thing to happen in the last twenty-four hours.

She eyes him—Foggy’s shoulders are a little too rigid, his smile too manufactured.

“Matt told you, didn’t he?” she says flatly.

Foggy winces.

She sighs, presses a hand over her eyes. “He managed to keep the fact that dresses up in a devil costume to beat up criminals a secret for years, but didn’t manage to keep my private information private for more than a night.”

“In his defense,” says Foggy, “he came to me about your legal status. Just in case—you know. Evidence leads back to you. We spent half the night looking up precedents, and trust me, if anyone does ever indict you, we’re prepared.”

Okay, that is kind of sweet.

“Come in,” she says, and he steps inside.

She watches as Foggy unpacks the paper bag—a head of cabbage, some carrots, and the aforementioned corned beef. “Do I want to know?” she asks, leaning on the counter.

Foggy glances at the coffeemaker. She nods and he goes to pour himself a cup. Karen picks up her own mint tea.

“My mom had this thing when she was pregnant with all of us,” he says. “She ate pounds of corned beef and cabbage. Something about the red meat and the salt. Still has a taste for it. Honestly, I think that’s why she wanted me to be a butcher.” He ducks beneath one of the counters. “You have a crockpot?”

“No,” she says.

“Come on, everyone has a crockpot. It’s like one of those obligatory couple gifts.” Foggy emerges with a large pot instead. He begins adding water. “Is he here?”

“Frank?” she says. “No—he went to the store to pick up Tylenol.” She isn’t allowed to have anything much stronger.

Foggy grimaces. “So it was bad, huh?”

She has to look away. “I don’t know how long Fisk had him. A few hours, at least. Maybe a full day. We haven’t really talked about it.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t seem like the ‘let’s talk out our feelings’ type.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says. And she was, in the beginning. Frank’s honesty extends to all aspects of his life. And while he may not always volunteer everything, if she asks, he doesn’t lie to her. She hasn’t asked about his kidnapping yet, because it’s still too soon, too raw.

Foggy works on the corned beef for a while—adding some spice packets and water, then putting the lid on the pot. He sets the heat to low. “I’ll chop up the vegetables and you should add them for the last twenty minutes, so they cook but don’t get soggy, okay? I’ll write it all down, just in case.”

“Foggy, you don’t have to—”

“Let me,” he says. “You’re my friend, and something terrible happened to you, and I wasn’t there to help and I get why you didn’t come to me because honestly I’d be shit in a firefight—but I’m here now and this is one thing I can do, okay? Well, this and legal stuff.” He begins chopping cabbage with surprising ease. “So how are you doing?”

“I’m sore,” she admits. “Turns out getting shot hurts, even if you’re wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“I could have told you that,” he says, with a rueful smile. “I didn’t have the vest, though. Got a badass scar. And… how are you doing, with… all of this?” Foggy gestures vaguely with the knife.

“All of this?” says Karen.

He grimaces. “You know. The situation. I mean, I know you care about Frank. And I get that he’s—uh, retired. But… Karen. If something goes wrong, if he goes back to what he did before, or if one of his enemies catches up with him…” He looks terrified but determined and this is why she loves him. She knows that he’s asking because he cares. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here. “I’ve worked a few child custody cases when one parent was… well, I mean, it’s a lot harder to get away from someone if there’s a kid involved.” He looks at her, pleading with Karen to understand—and she does.

He accepted her relationship with Frank the way he accepted the fact that Matt dresses in a suit and beats up criminals—he doesn’t understand it, but he tries to. He makes an effort. But that doesn’t mean he won’t protest actions he sees as foolhardy or dangerous.

She considers her reply. She isn’t angry, because she gets it. If this were one of her friends, she would probably be among the first people to try and stage some kind of intervention.

“Frank has never hurt me,” she says quietly. “And I’ve seen him with kids. He’s—he’s good with them, Foggy. I mean, he still swears in front of them—but we could probably both work on that.” She looks down at her cup of tea. “He isn’t perfect, I know. But we’ve made a life together, in more ways than one. And I trust him. With my life, and with this.”

Foggy nods. “Okay. I just—I had to check in because if something happened, and I didn’t say something…”

“I get it,” she says. “And thanks.”

He nods. “You gonna name him Foggy?”

“Of course.” She grins. “Even if it’s a girl.”

“Your poor, poor child.” He starts chopping carrots, and they move onto safer topics—his impending wedding to Marci, his latest court case, and how his family is doing. An hour passes before there’s the sound of a key in the lock, and Frank walks into the apartment. He pauses in the door, sniffing. “Corned beef and cabbage,” she says. “Courtesy of Foggy.”

Frank’s gaze goes to Foggy. Foggy will never be wholly comfortable with Frank—and Karen knows that. Honestly, she’s just glad Foggy didn’t run from the room the first time he realized who had moved in with Karen. Foggy spent far too many hours looking at crime scene photos to ever forget the things that Frank has done. But he’s also Karen’s closest friend, and his sense of loyalty outweighs any self-preservation.

“It was my mom’s favorite when she was pregnant,” he says. He and Karen are sitting at the couch—her with a fresh cup of tea and him with a beer.

“It’s the protein, right?” says Frank.

Karen raises her eyebrows, and Frank shrugs. “Maria went for chicken wings,” he says. “Same general principle, though. Thanks, Nelson.” That last bit is directed toward Foggy, who looks surprised but not displeased.

“Anytime,” he says.

Frank leans down, gives Karen a kiss on her cheek, then sets a small paper bag in her lap. It’s from the pharmacy; she digs out the small bottle of acetaminophen. Frank walks down the hall, and Foggy watches him go, then says in an undertone, “He does look like shit.”

“I may not be Murdock,” comes Frank’s voice, “but I can still hear you.”

Foggy chokes on a laugh.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Karen calls down the hall. “Can I at least interest you in a painkiller or five?”

A snort from the bedroom. “Naw. I’m good.”

Foggy frowns. “I did want to talk to both of you.”

Frank emerges from the bedroom, his jacket gone. He sits beside Karen, face expectant.

“Fisk’s name hasn’t been released to the public yet,” says Foggy. “It looks like he was trying to escape prison, bribed two guards, and maybe took someone else hostage. They found blood at the scene—some of yours, I assume?”

Frank nods. “If they do a DNA scan, someone else’s name will come up. Not mine.”

“Regardless,” says Foggy, “from the little bird I have on the force, it sounds like the whole thing is being looked at as an escape attempt gone wrong. The rounds used to kill Fisk and another guard match those belonging to the gun of yet another dead guard—the gun hasn’t been found, nor has the weapon used to strangle the other man.” He gives Frank a very even look. “I don’t want to know where they are, got it? Attorney client privilege is one thing, but I like sleeping through the night.”

Frank smiles thinly.

The weapons were tossed into the canal, Karen knows that much. She saw Frank wipe her prints off the wire and the pistol before throwing them as hard as he could into the water.

“The police won’t be looking too hard into it,” says Foggy. “Since it just looks like a botched escape attempt—and both the guards involved had huge deposits in offshore accounts. They were dirty.”

Karen breathes a little easier. “What about Vanessa Fisk?”

“She’s still a person of interest,” says Foggy. “But Matt kept the evidence of her ordering Nadeem’s death a secret, so Fisk wouldn’t expose him. Mutually assured destruction and all that.”

“And when she hears about Fisk’s death?” says Karen. “Do you think she’s the kind of person to just mourn and go on? It wouldn’t take much for her to realize that it was one of us who did it. She’ll probably blame Matt.”

Foggy looks discomfited by the question. “I… don’t know what she’ll do.”

She knows he would rather not be drawn back into this kind of fight. Foggy prefers the kind of lawyer life that includes going after corrupt corporations and standing up for those who need it; Matt likes setting legal precedents and justice—and once, Karen was part of that office and fought for the truth. She thought it was what mattered most. But now… she rests an arm across her stomach. If keeping her family safe involves getting Fisk’s widow arrested for an FBI agent’s murder, she’ll do it. But she isn’t sure if the older woman is the type to exact revenge, or if she’ll fade into the upper classes with the other white collar criminals.

Frank’s hand settles on her knee. A silent reminder that she isn’t alone in this.

“I’ll talk to Matt about it,” Foggy says. “See what he thinks.”

“You do that,” says Frank. “Thanks, counselor.” This is said with more genuine warmth, and Foggy pauses in the act of picking up his briefcase. He gives Frank a nod, leans over and hugs Karen with care, then makes for the door. Karen sees him out.

When the door is closed, Karen returns to the couch, settling in beside Frank. “He came by to check you on you,” says Frank, a bit approvingly. “He’s scared shitless of me and still did it.” He smiles. “I think I like him.” 

Karen exhales. “He’s worried. When I was working with them—there were a few… domestic cases. It wasn’t really what Nelson & Murdock was supposed to be working on, but Foggy and Matt could never turn them away.”

“They’re good men.”

“So are you.” She cups his cheek, careful of his split lip and bruises. He looks like someone hit him in the face with a tire iron—which, for all she knows, might have happened. “I told him that I trusted you.”

A shadow crosses his expression. “Not sure you should.” His fingers clench. “I nearly got you killed.”

Ah, yes. This is the one thing they haven’t spoken of yet.

“What happened?” she asks quietly.

She doesn’t have to elaborate; he understands.

He shifts on the couch, leaning over his own knees. His voice roughens, and his fingers twitch restlessly. “Once I knew you were safe, I geared up. Got the blueprints for the prison out of Lieberman, then looked for the nearest sniping position. LaGuardia was the closest I could get, so I dressed up as an airport worker, the kind who drive those trucks on the landing strips.”

“Not easy to sneak into an airport these days,” she says.

He shrugs. “Not the hardest place I’ve ever infiltrated. Wore a uniform so I looked like one of those guys refueling planes, kept to myself. Took four days, but I found a good place on a roof. The prison has outdoor areas—all I needed was a clear shot.” He rubs at his mouth, and his eyes harden. “Four days of searching, which was enough time to set up a routine. It was part of my cover—I’d get coffee at the stand where all of the other workers did. Little place outside of the airport, which gave discounts. Fisk must have paid someone off, because on the fifth day, my coffee was drugged. Took me about ten minutes to realize something was wrong. I got out of there, but I knew I was being tailed. Tried to vanish into a nearby neighborhood. Got as far as twenty-fourth avenue before one of them hit me with a stun gun.” He touches his chest—where, she remembers, there is the fading remnant of a burn mark.

“What then?” she asks quietly.

“Killed two of them,” he says, without heat. “That’s why there weren’t as many guards at the meet-up as there were supposed to be. Then the drug really hit my system, and things got fuzzy. I don’t remember how I got to the terminal. Just remember waking up in that goddamn chair, hands behind my back and Fisk grinning at me like his birthday had come early. Smug son of a bitch. He wanted to know where you’d gone.”

She wraps her fingers around his hand. His thumb moves along the inside of her wrist. The thought of him being tortured on her behalf—

“Wasn’t anything I haven’t faced before,” he says, smiling a little when he sees her expression. “It was actually better than the last few times. No reinforced gloves or power drills.”

She lets out a small breath. “Frank. I’m not sure your basis for comparison is all that healthy.”

“It was really you he wanted to hurt—from the sound of things, the news that you… He couldn’t live with you and I getting the kind of life that he never would. When it was obvious I wouldn’t tell him anything, he set up the trap.” A muscle twitches in his cheek. “He was going to kill both of us, you know. No matter what kind of deals he offered.”

“I know.” She grips his hand a little more tightly. She knows that they’re both going to need some time before the adrenaline and the fear fades. The memories are still too near—the smell of blood on cement and the smoke curling from Fisk’s handgun. But the memories will fade—she knows that. If there’s one thing she knows about the two of them, it’s that they’re resilient. They’re both too stubborn to be anything else.

“So what now?” she says.

He glances at her.

“Fisk’s dead,” she says. “Vanessa’s an uncertain element, but I don’t think we need to worry about her quite yet. We made it. So… what now?”

He leans back against the couch. “I’ve still got some time off of work. Told them I was taking two weeks—figured I’d either be done by then or I wouldn’t be coming back. So we’ve got another week to ourselves. What about the Bulletin?”

“I’m on medical leave,” she says. “I told Ellison it was an emergency. Judging from the look on his face, he thinks I either have appendicitis or cancer.” She thinks for a moment. “I mean, technically I do have an abnormal growth.”

That makes him laugh hoarsely, if only for a moment.

“We could hole up for a few days,” she says. “Not leave the apartment. Order in food when we need it, stay in our pajamas, put on a movie marathon or something.” There’s something appealing in the thought of staying somewhere safe and theirs. It will give them both some time to heal. To reacquaint themselves to a life without adrenaline and shell casings.

He nods. “I’ll need to make a few calls, but yeah. Sounds good.”

She ends up tending to the corned beef boiling on their stove while he checks in with David Lieberman; the other man has apparently been worried when Frank went abruptly silent and then bodies started appearing. “—Fine,” Frank is murmuring. “We’re both okay.”

And it’s not wholly a lie—because they will be.

* * *

That night, they watch an old James Bond film and eat corned beef and cabbage.

It’s actually kind of delicious.

“I’ll ask Foggy for the recipe,” she admits, when she is on her second bowl. “His mom may have been onto something.”

Frank laughs quietly. Her cold toes are pressed to his thigh. His fingers curl absentmindedly around her ankle, stroking back and forth.

It’s good. They’re good.


	5. holding

Time passes—and things begin to change.

Karen expected certain aspects of being pregnant: the nausea, the mood swings, the exhaustion. She thought she was prepared.

She was not.

Giving up coffee is a special kind of torment.

She looks covetously at Frank’s cup—steam rising in delicate tendrils, the smell of fresh ground beans sharp in the air, and she has to sit on her hands so she won’t just take it.

Frank eyes her, then downs the cup in three swallows. Smart man.

“The doctor said it was safe to have one cup a day,” he says.

She nods. “But it won’t be one cup. I know me—I’ll end up accidentally guzzling lattes on the way to work without realizing. So it’s cold turkey.”

Frank glances at his empty coffee cup; he steels himself. “I could… I mean. If it would help…”

A smile breaks across her face. He has taken bullets for her, but this is one sacrifice he doesn’t need to make. “No, no,” she says, waving him off. “Just because I’m knocked up doesn’t mean you have to stop drinking it.”

He looks both relieved and a little guilty.

“It’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll find something else to drink.” She thinks about it. “Maybe green tea.”

Green tea tastes like a freshly cut lawn. She hates it.

She tries to drink several cups—and hates it even more.

Normal tea isn’t bad, but again, there’s the caffeine issue. She finds an herbal blend of blueberry and raspberry leaves that she enjoys, but it doesn’t have the sharp heat that helps wake her in the morning.

One morning, when the craving is particularly bad, she climbs into Frank’s lap and kisses him. She can still taste the remnants of his morning cup, and while he seems startled by the sudden affection, his hands settle on her back. He groans into her mouth and she finds herself suddenly forgetting about her caffeine withdrawal. They haven’t had much sex since this all began—first she was nauseated and then Fisk happened, and then they were both bruised to hell, and now she wants nothing more than to feel his bare skin against hers. He seems to understand; his hand cups at the back of her neck, thumb tracing her hairline in a way that makes her shiver with pleasure.

Frank is tactile in a way she never expected—he savors every touch like it could be his last: mouth against her collarbone, fingers stroking up beneath her shirt, to the edge of her bra. When he picks her up and places her on the edge of the table, bending over her, that’s even better.

And okay—maybe sex is a decent distraction.

But it still isn’t _coffee._

* * *

“You look exhausted,” says Ellison.

“Good because I feel even worse,” she replies. She walks into the office with all of the life of the undead—shambling and graceless, hair lank and eyes shadowed despite her attempts at make-up. Exhaustion is apparently just a thing now, and she isn’t sure if this is a pregnant thing or an I-haven’t-had-a-latte-in-too-long thing. Ellison and the rest of work don’t know, so she makes an excuse about sleeping badly and goes into her office.

One of the interns offers to get her a cup of coffee.

She closes her eyes, fights back the urge to do something unwise like threaten to decapitate them with a ruler, and says, “No, thanks. Not drinking coffee right now.”

The intern—she’s probably like nineteen, with too-bright eyes and shiny hair—nods sympathetically. “Oh, sorry.”

There isn’t really much more to say after that, so the intern flounces away.

Karen goes back to working on finding sources for her newest article—she’s so exhausted she is ready to just put out a call on Twitter, which she knows is unwise and will bring out all sorts of people she doesn’t want to interview—when the intern pops back into her doorway.

She holds a steaming, dark cup.

“I said,” Karen begins to say, but the intern shakes her head.

“It’s chicory,” she says.

Karen blinks. “What?”

“Roasted chicory,” says the intern helpfully. “It’s… well, it’s sort of coffee-like? My mom’s got IBS and had to start drinking this stuff instead a few years ago. I got a taste for it, so I usually have some on me. Want to try?”

Karen eyes the cup. It looks like coffee—smells a little bitter and roasted, which is a plus. “No caffeine?”

“No caffeine,” confirms the intern.

She takes a sip. It isn’t coffee. But it tastes a little nutty and rich and it’s thicker than tea.

“Where can I get this?” asks Karen.

* * *

Luckily for her, around three months in the exhaustion finally begins to dissipate. Maybe her body is finally accepting the fact it won’t get caffeine.

She has started gaining a little weight. Her belly has the slightest of curves—it isn’t noticeable, not unless someone is looking for it. Karen is, and she touches the curve with one hand, examining it. “Might make wearing pencil skirts a little more difficult,” she murmurs. Frank is beside her in bed, a book in hand. His head is pillowed on her thigh, and he rolls over, smiling a little.

“That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?” he says. “Not wearing your favorite skirts.”

“They’re familiar,” she says, a little defensively. “I like them.”

“I do, too. But the world isn’t going to end if you’re forced to dress a little more casually.”

“So you won’t mind if I start stealing your sweatshirts and wearing them to work.”

“If it makes you happy, go ahead.”

She runs her fingers through his hair. His eyes close and he leans into the touch like he craves it.

“I’m going to schedule a doctor’s appointment soon,” she says. “Blood work and all of that. Another ultrasound.”

His eyes open and he glances up at her. “You want to find out the gender?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I mean, I don’t really care. You?”

“It’s up to you,” he says. “I’ll follow your lead. Just know it’ll piss off whoever throws your baby shower. Makes decorating a bitch.”

She hasn’t even considered things like baby showers.

“Who would even—” she begins to say, then goes silent. Because there really isn’t anyone in her life that would throw her a baby shower, not really. Her mother is gone; she doesn’t have any sisters; her closest friends are Foggy, Matt, Ellison, and a few other people from work. As much as it pains her to admit it, she doesn’t have many close female friends.

“I haven’t told my dad,” she says, and it feels like a confession. “I—I don’t even know if he’d want to know.”

Frank’s expression hardens a degree. He has little warmth for her father, even if they’ve never met. Once, after a few beers, in the dark of a winter night, he said that he couldn’t understand how any father would turn away from their child. _If it had been Lisa_ , he started to say, then faltered. And she understands—he would give anything for one minute with his daughter; he can’t conceive of someone being estranged from their kid. But Karen can’t hate her father. She can’t even truly dislike him. Because she understands where he’s coming from. She knows why he blames her; she spent most of her life blaming herself, too.

“That’s up to you, too,” he says. “You don’t want to tell him, that’s fine. This kid’s gonna have more than enough family.”

That makes her smile. It truly does. Because her child is going to have a family—herself, Frank, Foggy, Matt, Curtis, the Lieberman family, even Ellison when he finds out.

It’ll be more than enough.

The doctor’s appointment goes smoothly. Karen comes home with a new ultrasound—instead of looking like an alien peanut, their child looks like an alien avocado. But the blood work all comes back clean, and she’s given a good bill of health. Which is reassuring. She’s going to have to consider telling people soon, she knows. It won’t be long until her slight bump becomes more pronounced and she won’t fit into any of her normal work clothes. She’ll have to talk to Ellison about maternity leave. Research hospitals. Think about a nursery. And schools. And school districts—do they even live in a good one? What about—

Her mind is reeling.

Suddenly, everything seems a little more real—and a hell of a lot scarier.

Frank finds her in the living room, pale-faced and sweating, and he says, “What’s wrong?”

“What am I thinking,” says Karen. “I’ve never even had a dog on my own—how am I supposed to manage this?”

He understands at once, and this is why she loves him. He just gets her. “You’re the most capable person I know. Also, you’ve got back-up.”

“I’ve never held a newborn before,” she says. “All of the babies I’ve known were older. I don’t know anything about lactation or even how to change a diaper.”

“Tell you what,” says Frank, “I’ve got the diapers if you manage the feeding bit. Don’t really have the equipment for that.”

He’s so calm about all of this—it’s both reassuring and a little maddening. “I’m scared I’m going to fuck them up.”

“You will,” he says.

She snorts. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

“Every parent screws up,” he says, reasonably. “Accept it now. You’ll fuck it up, apologize to the kid, and go from there. No parent’s perfect.” He takes her hand and squeezes. “You’re going to be good, though.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” he says simply.

She doesn’t really have an argument for that—so she goes quiet and looks down at the ultrasound again.

“At least it’s a cute avocado,” she says, which makes Frank blink.

* * *

She ends up with a weird craving for _yogurt._ She doesn’t even really like yogurt.

“Could be worse,” Foggy says, when he watches Karen load up a grocery store basket. “Could be pickled onions piled atop ice cream.”

Karen wrinkles her nose. “Thank you for that mental image.”

“Anytime,” he says. “So am I allowed to tell Marci yet?”

They’re shopping together—because as sad as it sounds, this is the only time in three weeks they’ve managed to meet up. And besides, grocery shopping is more fun with people.

“Go ahead,” Karen says. “I’m going to talk to Ellison soon. He’s bound to notice I’ve stopped wearing skirts.”

“It’s kind of exciting,” says Foggy. “You’re the first of us to spawn.”

“You make me sound like a salmon.” She picks up a bag of chips and adds them to her basket. “You and Marci ever talk about it?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “Marci’s… well, I mean, she’s worked hard to get where she’s at. I think the idea of taking time off scares her more than the prospect of having a kid.”

“You’d be a good dad.”

Foggy looks embarrassed and pleased. “We’ll see.”

Karen leaves the store with two bags full of yogurt and plans to meet up with Foggy and Matt for dinner in a week.

All in all, a productive day.

* * *

She starts reading to her stomach.

It feels weird, but the doctor assured her that soon the fetus will be able to hear her soon. It’s good for babies to hear their parents, he said, and while it’s weird to begin reading her article drafts to herself, it also helps her catch a hell of a lot of typos.

One evening, Frank catches her at it. He’s coming back from Curtis’s group, and he’s wearing jeans and a dark jacket and he looks good. 

“What are you doing?”

Karen glances up from her laptop, then shuts the computer. “Just—um. Reading.”

“To the kid?”

Karen waves at her stomach. “Doctor said it was good for them.”

“I’ve heard that,” says Frank. “But what I meant was, why are you reading an article about _human trafficking_ to our kid?”

She breaks into a rueful laugh. “Because it’s what I’m working on?”

He grimaces.

That night, Frank reads aloud. He’s been reading _Dandelion Wine_. The low timbre of his voice soothes her into a state of half-sleep, and she lays on her side, eyes closed. Frank has scooted down the bed, so he’s nearly eye-level with her belly button. At first it’s kind of weird, but then she realizes how sweet it is. The worn paperback rests in one of Frank’s hands, while the other rests on her thigh.

“ _I’m alive, I know I’m alive, I mustn’t forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that_.”

* * *

Karen ends up telling Ellison over his morning coffee and her cup of that chicory blend. He looks like she hit him with her car—but in a good sort of way. “I knew you were dating someone, but this is… wow,” he says. “You going all domestic on me, Page? Going to find a place in the suburbs and maybe stay away from the crime beat?”

“Not on your life,” she replies.

Frank tells David Lieberman, and Karen works up the courage to send a letter to her father. It feels more formal than an email, but less painful than a phone call.

Everything seems to be going pretty well. But it’s still weird, because pregnancy is decidedly weird. One Friday, she has such bad heartburn that she slips out of work early. She walks home, texting Frank as she goes. The day is sunny and a little humid, and the air smells like the city—hot pavement and steam, cars and people. It’s nice.

She strides up to her apartment, taking the stairs because she should be getting some exercise, and unlocks her apartment door. She steps out of her shoes, puts her purse on the counter, and goes into the bedroom to change into looser clothing. Leggings and one of Frank’s sweatshirts.

She walks out of the bedroom, adjusting the sweatshirt, when someone clears their throat.

Karen looks up sharply to see—

There’s someone on her couch. For a moment, she thinks Frank must have come home early. But no, it’s not Frank.

This man has sharp features and blonde hair, and a smile that curves like a fish hook.

Former Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter sits on her couch.

Karen’s gun rests on the coffee table in front of him. He sits with his fingers loosely clasped, and his face is relaxed.

“Hey, Karen,” he says. Like they’re friends who met on the street, who just happened into one another. “Nice to see you again.”


	6. Enclosing

Frank has nightmares.

They aren’t as frequent as they once were—more of a monthly occurrence than a weekly one. He’ll come awake with a wordless cry or a gasp.

Most of the time Karen moves before she’s even truly aware of it, reaching for him. She won’t try to restrain him—it’s just a reminder that he’s not alone. Sometimes, Frank gets up and walks around the apartment, needing to burn off energy. Other times, he’ll talk to her. Most of the time, he’ll pull her tight against him. She will run her hands over his back, his chest, trying to ground him with touch. She won’t promise that everything is going to be okay—because she knows such words will ring hollow for him. But this much, she can do. She can be there for him.

She doesn’t ask what he dreams about—she knows.

And besides—she has her own nightmares.

She dreams of overturned cars, of the taste of copper running down her nose into her mouth, of waking with a knife in her hand, and of an endless maze of cubicles gone dark, of stepping over the bodies of people she has come to care about.

This is the truth of the matter: both she and Frank don’t have nightmares.

They have memories.

And Karen remembers the man sitting in front of her.

“Poindexter,” she says quietly.

“Dex,” he corrects her. “Everyone used to call me that.” His smile cuts lines around his mouth. He has stark features—he almost reminds her of a skull, with sharp cheekbones and thin mouth. “It’s shorter. And my therapist used to tell me that people like nicknames. Makes them feel more comfortable.” He gestures for her to sit at the chair across from him. 

She does. 

“What are you doing here?” she says. “I thought you were hospitalized.”

He nods. “I was. Got out—I’m better now.”

She doesn’t know how one gets better from a severely broken back. But here he is—as healthy as ever.

“As for what I’m doing here,” says Dex, “that’s quite simple. I hate leaving things unfinished—it just… bugs me.”

All at once, she is back in that dark church: the scent of old candle wax and the wood of the pews, the half-light of street lamps filtering though colored glass, and the sensation of cooling blood on her hands. She remembers the weight of her own fear, the knowledge that her death was likely on its way. She remembers wondering if it would be easier just to let it come.

“You here to kill me?” she says, very softly.

“That’s up to Daredevil,” he replies. “But probably.”

Her mind goes to Frank. He’ll come home in a few hours. And if she dies here, he’ll be the one to find her. 

She doesn’t know what her death will do to him. No, that’s a lie; she does know what it will do to him. Those pieces of Frank Castle, the ones he struggled to knot together after the loss of his family, his home, his very identity—will all tear apart. This life with her, it’s his second one. She doesn’t think he’ll manage a third.

She remembers how he looked the first time she saw him, striding through a hospital, shotgun in hand, his face half in shadow. 

If she dies, it won’t just be her that perishes. It’ll be her child—and Frank. He’ll go out in a blaze of gunfire and smoke, and he’ll probably take half of the organized crime of New York with him.

Karen gazes at Dex. Calm certainty settles across her, and she welcomes it.

She has to live through this. There’s no other option.

She considers what she might say to keep herself alive—pleas will go unheard and bargains unheeded. But if she can perhaps make herself seem an ally, instead of an enemy, she might live long enough to get help.

“Fisk is dead,” she says. “I killed him.”

Dex blinks. Then tilts his head, a half-smile on his mouth. “Did you? I knew he was dead but I assumed—shit, I thought Murdock had done it.

“Still,” says Dex, “doesn’t change anything about us. Not about the part you’re going to play.” He nods at her. “See, the thing about men like me and Murdock—we need people. Not like, everyday people but good people. My therapist called them ‘north stars.’ A way to course correct when I needed it. I had one, for a while. Girl called Julie. Good girl, sweet—worked at a suicide hotline before she became a waitress. Fisk killed her.”

“I’m sorry,” says Karen, and means it. Not for his sake, but for this Julie’s.

“I’ve been doing some research,” says Dex. “Pretty sure you’re the closest thing to a Julie that Murdock’s got.”

“I’m not—”

“You joined up with his firm when it first started.” Dex holds up fingers, as if counting off a list. “When you were there, he did well. Then you and Nelson both left, and Murdock went off the rails. Vanished, came back erratic and violent. When he made up with you and Nelson, he went back to his good ways. I’m thinking you were what he oriented his life around.”

Her mouth tightens. “I’ve never been involved with Matt Murdock.”

It’s only sort of a lie. There was one formal date and drinks at his apartment that one time. But they were never serious. Never more than a possibility, a hope—and one that never panned out.

“Neither has Nelson,” says Dex. “But one of you is his Julie. You or Nelson. Can’t really tell who. I’m guessing you, because pretty girl and all.” He says the words without any real emotion behind them. “So, I’m going to make him choose.”

Her stomach clenches.

Dex smiles thinly. He pulls Karen’s phone out of her purse and holds it out. “Unlock it.”

“Or?”

“Or I shoot you now.”

She has to survive this. Somehow. She presses her thumb to the phone and unlocks it. Dex begins swiping through her contacts until he finds the right one. He hits a number, then puts the phone on speaker. Karen listens to it ring, half-hoping that Matt won’t pick up.

No such luck.

“Hey, Karen,” says Matt.

“Murdock,” says Dex.

There’s a brief silence, then Matt says, “Where’s Karen?” His voice has changed—hardened a little. She imagines him gone still, phone pressed to his ear as he realizes that something is wrong.

“She’s right beside me,” says Dex easily. “Karen, would you mind saying hello for me?”

Karen doesn’t answer. Dex raises both eyebrows as if to say, _Really?_ Then he glances significantly at the gun, where it rests on the coffee table.

It’s a little out of reach. She needs a moment—just a single moment to reach out and grab it. If he’s talking to Matt, then maybe she’ll get it.

“Hey, Matt,” she says, loud enough so that he’ll hear her.

“She’s irritated that I broke in,” says Dex. “Nice apartment here. Ugly couch, though.”

“Special Agent Poindexter,” Matt says, “I thought Fisk put you out of action.”

“Former special agent, thanks to you.” Dex shifts a little on the couch, as if in irritation. “Everything was going fine, you know. Until you and your friends fucked it all up.”

“Until Fisk killed your friend, you mean,” Matt replies. “We had nothing to do with that.”

“Maybe it all would’ve turned out okay,” says Dex. “Maybe, if things had just been different, if I hadn’t known—maybe then Julie would have been allowed to rest. Maybe—guess we’ll never know. You watch baseball, Murdock?”

The sudden change in subject makes Karen blink. Matt doesn’t answer. His breathing is a little faster, and Karen wonders if he’s running, if he’s headed toward her apartment.

“You know how you win a game? You put the players where you need them,” says Dex. “Which is why I’m going to tell you that I’m about to put a knife through Ms. Page’s wrist.”

A slight intake of breath. “Why—”

“I might miss the veins,” says Dex. His voice is so casual, so normal that they could be speaking of that aforementioned baseball game. “I might not. See the thing is, I was never very good at missing my targets. I’m going to pin her arm to this rather flimsy coffee table, then I’m going to shove the knife through. I’ll leave the call going and put the phone just out of her reach—but it’s on speaker, so you can still talk to her. Then, I’m going to your new offices and I’m going to shoot Franklin Nelson.

“So you’ve got a choice,” says Dex. “Run as fast as you can—you might get to her in time. I know where you are—about ten minutes away, at that gym you like. I’m kind of good at following people. So you could save her, if I miss a vein. If I don’t, at least you’ll get comfort her. I hear that’s important in times of stress. Or you could call Nelson and warn him I’m coming. But if you hang up, only way for her to pick up another call would be to tear that knife out of her arm, out of the table, and bleed out.”

“You can’t make me,” Matt begins to say, but Dex cuts him off.

“I can. And I am. You get to save one of them—not both. It’s up to you.” Dex shifts his jacket, and Karen sees the gleam of metal—he has several knives tucked into a holster along his shoulder. They’re thin and silver, and they look like they could be flicked at a target. He picks one of the larger blades, weighs it between his fingers. Her phone goes on the couch.

“Hold still, Karen,” says Dex. “I’d rather I didn’t—”

She seizes hold of his wrist and slams it into the coffee table. He lets out a startled intake of breath and the knife falls from his fingers. Matt’s voice is a distant thing—she can’t tell what he’s saying, not with the blood pounding in her ears.

She has to get the gun. If she can get the gun, she can end this. She shoves at Dex, throwing him off balance enough that she can lunge for her pistol. He exhales hard, kicking out at her leg.

She darts to one side, throwing out an arm for the gun. Her fingers close around the barrel.

Dex’s fist slams into her shoulder. It hurts—pain flaring along her collarbone, and it’s enough to startle her into staggering, to slacken her grip. The gun skitters away.

She jabs her elbow into his side, and feels the impact jolt up her arm. His vest is armored. With a snarl, she claws at his eyes, nails raking across his cheek. He jerks his head away, and her nails strike at his cheek. Blood wells up beneath his eye and anger flashes across his expression.

The gun is on the floor—just out of reach.

Dex wraps one arm around her chest, pulling her back toward him, knife in his other hand. “Would you—”

She throws her head back, feels his nose crunch and a shock of pain through her skull. He lets her go and she lunges forward, reaching for the gun. He catches her around the ankle, jerking her off balance and she falls hard—twisting so her stomach won’t hit the coffee table. It overturns with a loud clatter, and Karen lays on her side for a moment, dazed and breathing hard. 

Dex picks up the gun, tucks it into the waistband of his jeans, and looks down at her. His face is bloodied, his nose broken.

She is furious, desperate—she feels feral and wild, and if she could sink her teeth into him, she would.

Dex seems more irritated than anything else; he reaches over, picks up the phone.

“He hung up,” he, sounding oddly disappointed. “Well, I guess that answers that. Nelson’s the one he chose to save.” He shrugs. “But if there’s one thing I learned, it’s to end things.” 

He holds the knife between thumb and forefinger, eyes on Karen. With the blood flowing down across his chin, he looks even more skull-like. An incarnation of death, finally come to claim her.

She’ll have to throw herself behind the couch. Make a run for the door—even if she probably won’t make it. She has seen what he can do with pencils—never mind with throwing knives.

She isn’t going to make it out of here.

“I’m pregnant,” she says. 

She hates begging, but she’ll do it. For her child, if not for herself.

He tilts his head. “I’m sorry, that’s hard.” But his voice is flat, uninflected. 

She watches as the edge of the knife comes up, glinting between his fingers. He gauges the throw, and she remembers all too well the Bulletin—how her friends looked, how she’ll look when—

The front door crashes open, slamming against a wall. Dex straightens, gaze flashing toward the door. Karen scrambles back on hands and knees, using his distraction to put some distance between them.

Frank steps into the apartment, his gun trained on the other man. His face is set in hard lines, dark eyes ablaze and mouth tight. He looks every inch the Punisher, for all that he’s dressed in trousers and a buttoned shirt. “Drop the knife, asshole,” he growls.

Dex throws the knife, hilt-first at the wall. It bounces, blade gleaming, and Karen only has a moment to think, _Oh shit_ , before the point arcs toward her face. Her arm comes up, but there’s a roar of sound—and then the knife skitters across the floor, hitting a wall.

There’s a smoking dent in its surface.

Frank shot the knife _out of the air._

Dex laughs.

Then he’s moving. Dex’s smile is sharp-edged, and she sees the glitter of metal between his knuckles before he flicks something at her. A tiny knife—turning over and over in the air, time thick and slow so she can see the sunlight gleam off the metal.

Frank collides with her, rolling hard. The world turns over, and she realizes he’s taken them both over the top of the couch, falling to the floor behind it. He takes the brunt of the fall, but she still feels the shock of it. 

Something cracks against the wall behind them, bouncing off of it and Karen seizes her fallen purse. She catches the knife on it, blade sunk deep into the faux leather. Frank snarls a curse, raising his gun. He gets off one shot before another shot rings out—and Karen recognizes the familiar bark of her own pistol from hours spent at the shooting range. Dex has opened fire.

Karen lets out an involuntary sound of surprise, and she pulls herself into a tight fetal position—trying to make herself as small as possible. She hears bullets bite into drywall and hopes that none of her neighbors are home. She imagines metal tearing into flesh. Frank curls around her, one arm over her head and the other covering her stomach.

The gun clicks empty, and the world goes quiet—save for the sound of rubble falling to the floor and Frank’s low snarl as he rises from his crouch and fires two shots in quick succession. One hand remains on Karen’s back, keeping her low to the floor.

There is the sound of crashing glass, then silence.

Frank remains in place, gun steadied against the back of the couch, his gaze sharp on something Karen can’t see. Finally, an eternity later, he says, “Bastard’s gone. Out the window, down the fire escape.”

Karen sits up, puts her back to that of the couch. She’s shaking hard, teeth chattering. “You okay?” Frank says. He puts the gun carefully aside before kneeling beside her. “You’ve got blood on you.”

“I broke his nose,” she says. “How—did you know—”

“Murdock called me. I was three blocks away—a few people from work wanted to go out to lunch.” His jaw clenches. “Who was that?”

“Former special agent Benjamin Poindexter,” she says. “He—he was the one who massacred the Bulletin. My coworkers—” She can’t continue. She still remembers bagged and bloodied cell phones, the smell of the hospital, and the crushing knowledge that it was her fault, that she’d brought death to the place she’d felt most accomplished, that she’d ruined everything—

Frank leans in, brow touching hers. She can feel his breath against her cheek. “Hey, hey,” he says softly. He’s warm and steady, and she wants to sink into him, to steal some of that bedrock strength. She settles her hands on Frank’s chest, trying to focus on the rise and fall. Then the whine of a siren makes her flinch.

“You need to get out of here,” she says. Because as much as she wants him here, he can’t be. Even with his beard, with his longer hair and a year and a half since any glimpse of the Punisher, it’s still too risky. The cops will recognize him.

Frank glances toward the broken window, then back to her. “I’m not leaving you alone,” he says.

“They’ll arrest you,” she says, a little desperate. The sirens are louder now. “Frank, you’ll go to prison.”

Frustration flashes across his face, the vein in his neck visible, and he looks down. He flicks the safety on, then presses his gun into Karen’s hands. “Stay armed until the cops arrive, got it?”

She nods. “What about you?” She doesn’t like the thought of him without a weapon.

“Don’t worry about me.” He cups her cheek, kisses her. “I’ll be out of sight.” He rises from his crouch, and there’s a predatory grace to his stride as he prowls out of the apartment. Karen remains on the floor, a borrowed pistol between her fingers, body thrumming with fear.

Dex is back. He’s back and he’s gunning for Matt.

Karen hastily wipes down Frank’s gun; his fingerprints may be gone from the system, but she wants evidence to show that only her fingerprints are on the gun. It’s simpler that way. She looks around her apartment. It’s a mess—bullet holes in the wall, knives scattered long the floor, and the window is shattered. Well—there goes their security deposit.

The thought is so mundane that a startled laugh escapes her. She presses one hand to her mouth. Distant police sirens are making themselves known and Karen walks unsteadily to the door, pulling it open. She steps into the hallway and sinks, shaking, to the floor.

* * *

She ends up at the police station for four hours.

She is sitting at Brett Mahoney’s desk, her stomach hollow and head throbbing. She has recounted her story five times—with the absence of Frank Castle, of course. She tries calling Matt, but he won’t pick up his phone. Neither does Foggy. She can only hope that Matt got to him in time, that whatever violence touched her life hasn’t reached either of them yet.

Brett has been in and out, answering calls to the FBI and the hospital where Poindexter was supposed to be treated. He’s gone, of course—with his name attached to a different blonde man. The records were somehow switched out, and Mahoney is furious about it, his temper held in check seemingly by professionalism alone. “Goddamn FBI,” he mutters, when he hangs up. Then he glance at Karen. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head. “You saved my life back at that church, Brett. You can swear all you want.” She hasn’t forgotten the church nor his actions there. Even so, the hours are beginning to wear on her. All she wants is a cold, dark room with solid walls and a bed to curl up in. And food. She’s almost nauseated with hunger; she hasn’t eaten since breakfast and it’s well after five. “Also, I like you, which is why I’m going to tell you that either you need to let me grab something from the vending machine or I’m going to vomit on your desk.”

He blinks several times. “You feeling sick?”

“No, pregnant,” she says, because she’s too exhausted to hide it.

“Oh,” he says, not bothering to hide his surprise. “Shit.”

His gaze rolls down over her body. She has the smallest of bumps now, and it could be easily missed. His gaze zeroes in on it for a moment, then he meets her eyes. “Hold on,” he says, and rises from his chair. He goes into another room, then returns with what looks like a paper-wrapped bundle. He hands it over. It’s a sandwich—she sniffs. The scents of meat and cheese make her stomach ache with hunger, but she looks at him.

“Is this your dinner?” she asks. “I can’t—“

“Eat it,” he says flatly. “My mother would be furious if she knew I’d fed you from the vending machine. I’m honestly not sure the last time it was restocked.”

Karen smiles a bit. She’s heard about Mrs. Mahoney from Foggy, but she has never met the older woman. “How about we split it?”

“Deal,” he says.

She unwraps one half of the sandwich and gives the other to him. She takes a bite and has to hold back a groan. She devours her half in about one minute flat. Mahoney watches her eat with a kind of amused bewilderment. “You have a safe place to go?” he asks. “You need a protection? Because I can arrange something. You can’t go back to your place right now—it’s cordoned off.”

She swallows the last mouthful. “I’ve got a friend’s place.”

Mahoney’s face tightens. “Nelson?”

“No, I was thinking—” Her voice strangles out. There is something in Mahoney’s face, and it makes her lungs squeeze tight. “What—what is it?”

Mahoney leans back in his chair. He looks abruptly exhausted. “I got word about twenty minutes ago. Someone shot up Nelson’s apartment. Looks like a sniper.”

For a few heartbeats, she thinks she might regret taking those bites of sandwich. She must go pale, because Mahoney makes a grab for his trash can and shoves it beside her knee. She can’t look at it—she can’t look at him. “Foggy,” she whispers. “Is—is he…?”

“We haven’t found bodies,” says Mahoney heavily. “But we haven’t found Foggy or Marci either.” 

“Why aren’t you there?” she asks, because surely he has better things to do than sit here talking to her.

Mahoney heaves a sigh. “Not my precinct. Technically, Foggy doesn’t live in Hell’s Kitchen anymore. I’ve got some friends over there—they’re keeping me updated. This Poindexter—he’s not one to fuck around, apparently. I’m not sure what he thinks he can accomplish, but then again, he may just be batshit. Either way, you need to be careful.”

Shit. Shit—she needs to talk to Matt. To Frank. To anyone other than Mahoney.

“Can I go?” she says. She can’t stay here, not any longer.

Mahoney looks like he wants to stop her, but he nods. “We’ll call you when you can go back to your apartment. And I’ll call you if… if we get news about Foggy. You sure you don’t need someone to escort you someplace?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks, Brett,” she says quietly. “And thanks for the sandwich.”

She leaves the police station; it’s getting dark, evening beginning to fall between the tall buildings. She gets about twenty feet before a shadow slips from an alleyway and walks out to meet her.

Frank looks alert in a way she hasn’t seen for over a month, not since the incident with Fisk. Without a word, she steps into the circle of his arms and presses her face to his shoulder. It’s a momentary respite, a few seconds when she can block out the world. He holds her tightly, one hand cupped around the back of her head. 

“I have to call Matt,” she whispers. 

She doesn’t even know how to explain, but he doesn’t press. Her purse has a knife-sized hole in it, so she shoved her phone and wallet into the sweatshirt’s oversized front pocket before she left the apartment. She pulls out her phone and calls Matt.

This time, he picks up.

“Karen? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just got out of the police station. Mahoney’s coordinating with the FBI on the attack on me—Foggy?”

“Foggy’s all right,” says Matt. “Angry and scared, but fine. I got him out in time.” He takes a breath, and it sounds a little shaky. “I—I’m sorry. I should have tried to get to you, but—”

“No,” she says at once. “You did the right thing calling Frank.” She glances at Frank out of the corner of her eye. “When’d the two of you even exchange numbers?”

“When I came back to town,” says Frank. “Figured it was easier than meeting him on rooftops.” He glances at the nearby buildings. “We should get off the street.”

“I need to be quick,” she says, into her phone. “Where are you?”

Frank puts his hand between her shoulders and she starts walking, only half-aware of where they’re headed.

A hesitation on Matt’s end. “Listen, Karen. You and Frank—you should just get out of town for a few days. Take some vacation. Get away from this.”

“No,” says Karen.

“You’re a liability,” says Matt.

“Tell that to Wilson Fisk,” she snaps.

“Karen,” says Matt, sounding pained.

“He killed my coworkers,” Karen says hotly into the phone. “He killed Father Lantom, he killed a witness two feet from where I was standing, and he tried to kill me, twice. He hurt Ellison. If anyone is going to help bring him down, it’s me.”

Frank’s fingers twitch against her back. He parked their car behind a bank. “Stay here,” he says quietly, then approaches on his own. She watches as he circle the car once, then gets on his knees and checks the undercarriage. Looking for explosives, she realizes, with a chill.

“Where are you?” Karen says, into the phone.

Matt exhales. “We’re at the church.”

She bites back a curse. “Really? You couldn’t have thought of anywhere else?”

“Our places are out,” Matt says, sounding tired. “Poindexter knows about the gym, and Foggy wasn’t going to bring this near his family. So it’s the church.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Karen says.

There’s another pause. “I still think you should get out of town,” Matt says.

“Because I’m pregnant?” Karen says.

“Yes,” says Matt, and at least he’s being honest about it. She can respect that. “And because Frank is an unstable element in a situation that’s already precarious.”

Karen remembers the flash of metal coming at her face—the knife twisting through the air, and the bullet that knocked it off-course.

“Or maybe he’s exactly what we need,” Karen says, and ends the call.

By now, Frank is done checking the car. He nods at her, and she approaches, getting into the passenger side. He shoves the key in the ignition. “Where are we headed?” he asks.

“The church.”

“Dammit.” Frank shakes his head. “That’s predictable.”

“That’s what I told Matt.” She can feel the weight of his gaze, but she doesn’t have the energy to meet it. It feels as though the day has lasted a week—and all she wants is to lie down, to curl into a ball and just rest. She can’t, not with Poindexter on the loose.

They have to end this.

“I didn’t realize,” Frank says quietly.

“What?” 

He looks as though he is peering into the past—and isn’t happy about what he sees. “That things were… that bad,” he says. “I didn’t hear about the massacre at the Bulletin until a week after it happened. By then, there was more news about you, so I knew you were okay. I should have—I should have done something. Come back.”

“Hey, we managed.” She rests her hand on his forearm. “And you did come back, later.”

From the look on his face, her words aren’t a comfort.

“You have no idea,” he says, “how much I want to just drive out of New York. Keep going until I hit the state border and just… not stop. Find some rural ass town and stay there. Raise this kid far away from all of this shit.”

She leans back in the car seat. Her hand settles on her stomach, resting there. “Maybe we will,” she says. “But not because someone chased us from our home, okay?” 

Their lives are here—for the moment. Maybe that will have to change, but Karen wants that to be on her terms, not anyone else’s.

“Let’s get to the church,” she says.

Frank nods, and pulls out of the parking lot.


	7. Harboring

They take a roundabout route to the church. Frank parks in a private lot, then they walk five blocks, doubling back, and then detour through a few alleyways. He’s armed; Karen can feel the bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket when he wrap an arm around her. She’s grateful that she ate part of that sandwich, otherwise, she isn’t sure she could have managed to keep up.

Finally, they go around the back. Frank pulls the door open. “Go on in,” he says. “I’m going to check the perimeter.”

She nods and steps inside.

The church is dark and smells of polished wood. Matt meets her at the door; there is a bruise across his cheekbone. Wordlessly, he pulls Karen into a hug. She hugs him back, tight. He looks exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he says, and she just knew those would be his first words. “I should have known this was going to happen—heard something, anything.”

Karen pulls back. “How’s Foggy?”

Matt grimaces. “Poindexter hit his apartment—I managed to get to Foggy at work, but Marci went home. We just… it wasn’t easy. But they both got out all right.”

Foggy and Marci are in one of the back rooms. Foggy has blood in his hair—it looks like he might have just been grazed along the forehead.

It must have been close.

She thinks of a knife spinning toward her—it was close for all of them.

“Hey,” says Foggy, when he sees her. “You’re okay. How’s the avocado?”

Karen’s hand goes to her stomach. “Still in there, as far as I can tell. I mean, the heartburn’s kind of hard to miss.”

Marci frowns. “Avocado?”

“I’ll text you a picture of the ultrasound,” says Foggy. “It’s on my phone.”

Matt is speaking quietly with one of the nuns—Sister Maggie. Karen smiles a little at the older woman. She looks up and meets Karen’s eyes, gives her a small nod, and strides deeper into the church. Matt leans a little on the doorframe, his ear cocked slightly. Listening, no doubt.

Foggy has set up a few chairs in a semi-circle, and there are cups of herbal tea on the table. Karen takes one, drinking gratefully. She sits beside Marci, and gives the other woman a surveying look. Marci has the appearance of someone who ran a fair distance in high-heeled pumps—a little windblown and irritated. “So this is something to do with Wilson Fisk, right?” she says.

Karen starts to nod, then shrugs. “He used to work for Fisk—but they betrayed one another in the end. I think this is more about revenge, about—”

_Daredevil._ She manages to bite down on her reply. That isn’t her secret to tell.

Marci gives her a sharp glance, but Karen doesn’t continue. Foggy brings her a cup of tea, then goes to talk with Matt.

Frank arrives after about ten minutes. “We should lock all the doors,” he says to Matt, instead of ‘hello.’

“It’s a _church_ ,” Matt says.

“That you chose for your base of operations,” replies Frank. “If you weren’t prepared to have someone shoot up the place, you should’ve gone somewhere else.” He strides across the room, checking the windows: they’re all small, the kind meant to fold outward to give the room a bit of air.

“Do I know you?” asks Marci, frowning.

“Probably,” Frank says. To Foggy he says, “You all right, counselor?”

Foggy nods. “It’s good to see you,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

Frank shuts the window, locks it, then digs a few towels out of a cupboard and begins covering the glass. He works diligently, doing the same with every window. Then he turns, gives the room a calculating look and says, “Move the chairs about three feet to the left.”

“Why?” says Marci.

“Just do it,” says Foggy wearily. He rises, dragging his own chair with him. “He’s the expert in this sort of thing, after all.”

Marci narrows her eyes at Frank. She’s a smart woman, and if Karen knows her then—

“Holy shit,” Marci breathes, and nearly falls out of her chair. Foggy stumbles and catches her, angling his feet so he isn’t beneath one of her sharp heels. “You’re—”

“He’s fine,” says Foggy quickly. “It’s fine, honey. He’s—retired.”

Frank walks to Karen. She’s still sitting in her chair. She smiles wearily up at him, and he rests a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Marci whirls on Foggy. “Wait—you knew about this?” Her expression sharpens with concern and anger. “I know he was your client, but…”

“We have bigger things to worry about right now,” says Matt. “Like Poindexter.”

“I think when I’m standing in the same room as the Punisher, I deserve an explanation,” Marci snaps. Then her eyes drop—and Karen realizes she’s looking at Frank’s hand, which rests on the back of Karen’s chair. Comprehension flickers across Marci’s face.

“This is your boyfriend,” says Marci. “The one I’ve never met, the one who goes out of town, the one who knocked you up.”

There is little point in hiding it. They’re beyond lies. So Karen nods.

“No wonder his trial went to shit if your paralegal was getting railed by your client,” says Marci tartly.

“Hey,” Frank says, irritated. No on his behalf, Karen knows, but hers. “That’s—”

“If you say ‘out of line,’ I am going to hit you with one of my shoes,” says Marci, pointing one manicured nail at him. “As far as I can tell, whatever shit we’re been dragged into—”

“Has nothing to do with him,” says Karen firmly. “The only reason he’s here is because he’s with me.”

“So you’re saying it’s a complete coincidence that your boyfriend is a mass murderer when we’re being attacked by some psychotic assassin?”

“Not really?” says Foggy. “I mean, they never would have met if not for—” He goes silent, realizing the territory he’s trodden into.

“What,” says Marci, turning her sharp gaze on Foggy.

He hesitates.

“I swear to fuck,” says Marci, “if someone doesn’t explain right now—”

“I’m Daredevil,” says Matt. He says it quickly, the way a person might yank off a bandage.

Marci goes quiet. Looks at him, squints. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

* * *

The explanations take a while.

Matt and Foggy take turns talking, and Karen puts in a word or two. Frank is on his phone, texting. He seems content to remain quiet, to stay on the outskirts of the discussion. Sister Maggie comes in and out of the room, refilling cups of tea and offering the occasional dry bit of commentary. 

Marci goes from stunned to irritated, to angry with Foggy for not telling her. Karen knows how she feels: she went through the same storm of reactions when Matt told her. So she can’t really blame Marci when she finally gets to her feet, says, “I need a fucking drink,” and strides toward the door. “This is a Catholic church, right? Got to be wine somewhere.”

“We keep a bit of whisky on hand for emergencies,” says Sister Maggie. She follows Marci out of the room, and the door shuts behind them both.

Which leaves Matt, Foggy, Frank and Karen. Karen’s back aches a little and her eyes are fuzzy, but she stays firmly planted in her chair. “So what’s our plan?” she says.

Matt lets out a heavy breath, pressing the pad of his thumb between his brows. He looks he’s fighting a headache. “I’m not sure. Poindexter is… good. I’m not sure I could take him in a fair fight.”

“So we don’t fight fair,” says Frank. “If he wants a war, I’ll give him one.”

Matt straightens. “Frank. We’re not going to—”

“I have to say,” Foggy says, “I’m with Castle on this one.”

Karen looks at him sharply.

“Foggy,” Matt says quietly. Like a plea.

“I had to watch Marci get shot at,” says Foggy. He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “And you know that I don’t condone murder but—who the hell can take this guy out? You tried, Matt. You couldn’t take him down. Fisk broke his back, and it still didn’t stop him. So you’ll forgive me if I’m willing to let the whole Alien versus Predator thing play out in real life.”

“I’m right here,” says Frank.

“You’re the Predator in this situation, for the record,” Foggy says.

“I remember when you were scared of me,” says Frank. “Kind of miss those days.”

“The FBI is going to be out in force,” says Matt evenly. “They’ll be swarming New York—you really think you can just stroll around in a skull-painted vest and none of them would notice you? You’ll go to prison.”

“We do have to be smart about this,” Karen admits. “We can’t go rushing in—Poindexter nearly killed us. Several times, in fact. And that was when he was restrained, when Fisk was holding his leash. Now, he’s on his own and he’s pissed.”

“What do we even know about him?” asks Foggy. “Besides the fact he can bounce a paperweight off a wall and kill you with it, I mean.”

Frank says, “Thirty-five years old. Grew up in New Hampshire. Joined the army after he aged out of a group home. Used to be part of Joint Task Force Bravo, out of Honduras. Afterward, he was recruited by the FBI and trained as a SWAT sniper. He was best in his class.”

“Is that bad?” asks Foggy. “I mean, I know that sounds bad but—”

Frank’s mouth is a flat line. “FBI snipers are trained at Quantico, same as the Corps. He was probably only a few years behind me.”

“Shit,” says Karen, the word slipping out before she can stop herself. It feels wrong to swear in a church, even if she isn’t truly religious.

“How’d you get this information?” asks Matt.

Frank merely smiles. It’s a rather frightening expression—or it might have been if Karen didn’t know he’s been texting David Lieberman for the past hour.

But if Frank wants to maintain a certain level of dangerous mystique, she’ll let him have it. 

Relationships are built on compromise, after all.

“Not important,” Frank says. “What is important is this—you’ve got a trained killer hunting all three of you. And if you think I’m going to just sit back and watch it happen, you let yourself get hit in the head by mobsters too many times.”

“My hero,” says Foggy, utterly deadpan.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” says Karen, smiling a little at him.

“Oh, please,” says Foggy. “You managed to fight Poindexter off. I got hit in the head by ricocheting drywall. If anyone’s going to be the stereotypical damsel, it’s me.”

“We’re not going to decide anything right now,” says Matt. “Not when we’re exhausted and—just not, now.” He scrubs his hands through his hair. “Listen, there’s a bathroom you can use if you want, and I’ll talk to someone about where we can sleep. Just… let’s put this off until we’re not running ourselves ragged.”

Frank nods. “Not a bad plan.” 

They go their separate ways—Foggy, off to find Marci. Frank, presumably to check the doors and windows again. Matt, to who knows where. Karen goes to find that bathroom, to wash off the day. The bathroom is all antique tiling and a bit of rust along the edges of the faucets, but the shower works well enough, and there are clean towels beneath the sink. She watches the water turn red-brown, then pink, then run clear. She scrubs herself clean, runs a hand down along her stomach and holds it there for a moment.

“We’re going to be fine,” she whispers. Her voice echoes hollowly off of the tiles. 

She has no other clothes, so Karen pulls hers on again—the oversized sweatshirt and leggings. When she steps out of the bathroom, hair still damp, she sees Frank standing in the hallway. Standing sentinel, she realizes, with a rueful shake of her head.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.” He nods at the bathroom. “Feel better?”

“So much.” She takes his hand, laces their fingers together, and squeezes gently. “How is everyone?”

“Murdock’s on the roof,” he says, with no attempt to hide his eye roll. “Nelson and that Marci are debating whether or not to leave town. That nun—the one that keeps hanging around—showed me where we could sleep tonight. There’s some cots in the basement.”

“Sounds good,” she says, with a wan smile. “Lead the way?”

He does, and she follows him through the church corridors. It feels strange to be here again; honestly, she’d rather never step foot in this place after Father Lantom’s funeral. There are too many memories lingering in the shadows, too many old fears. They descend the stairs, and Frank turns left.

The room looks like a basement dormitory. There are a few bunk beds, a few cots. The cots are narrow, so Frank ends up shoving two of them together, and taking a few more blankets. She slips out of her shoes, puts her wallet and phone on a nearby table. Someone left a pitcher of water and two glasses there, and Karen guzzles a cupful gratefully. Then she leans over the table, eyes closed, and tries to take stock of herself.

When she straightens, she sees Frank standing a few feet away, watching her. To anyone else, he would appear impassive—he is utterly still, face expressionless. But she can see the fear in the tightness around his eyes. He’s scared—and fuck, so is she. Poindexter is dangerous, and he’s made it clear that he considers killing her a point of pride.

“I don’t give a shit about what Nelson and Murdock think we should do,” he says quietly. “What do you think?”

“How would you kill him?” she asks. Because she’s tired and sore and ready to do away with trivialities.

Frank’s attention seems to sharpen. He is the kind of man who needs an objective, a mission. And for the last year and a half, that’s been trying to build a life. Now, it’s trying to keep that life.

“He’s a sniper,” says Frank. “He knows how to avoid being killed at a distance. He’ll avoid places where I could pick him off. And besides, with his aiming skills, I’m not entirely sure I could outshoot him.”

“So how would you do it?”

“Hand to hand,” he says bluntly. “Get in close. I’ve got more experience—and better training. He works best at a distance, from what I can tell. I wouldn’t give him that.”

A year ago, even a few months back, she might have protested this conversation. She would have been considering all of their options. But now—now things have changed. The truth of the matter is that Poindexter was taken into custody; his back was broken. Neither of those setbacks seem to have slowed him down.

“Tomorrow,” she says, “we should go to the hospital that treated him. See if we can track down those records.”

Frank’s gaze sharpens. “You think there’ll be discrepancies? Something that’ll lead us to Poindexter?”

“His back was broken,” she replies. “Badly, from what I heard. First thing we need to figure out is how a man just walks that off.” She grimaces. “I know—I know there’s weird shit out there. Elektra—the woman that Matt loved—was dead, but someone managed to bring her back. This could be similar. All I’m saying is… if this is weird somehow, we should know who’s involved.”

Frank may be the warrior, but this is her kind of fight. Tracking down leads, sifting through information. This is what she excels at.

“Fucking weird,” Frank mutters. “I thought it was bad when I sniped ninjas off a rooftop, but now we have resurrected dead people and broken spines miraculously healing themselves?” He looks more irritated than frightened by the prospect of it all. “More shit to worry about.”

Karen smiles. 

“What?” he says, baffled.

“Just we are going to have to watch our language once the avocado is born,” she says, “or else their first word is probably going to be ‘shit.’”

Frank snorts.

She laughs, but it dissolves into a yawn.

His hands move along her back, and it feels so good she sways, as if she could fall asleep right there. “Come on,” he says. “You should get some sleep.”

Karen curls on her side and Frank flicks off the ancient bedside lamp before setting beside her. She feels his lips against the back of her head, a light touch against her damp hair. His exhale is a shaky one.

She rolls over. In the darkness of the basement, she cannot see his face—not even the vague shape of it. She finds him in the dark by touch alone, fingers skimming up his jaw, across the soft beard, then curling around the back of his neck. She kisses his mouth, and he responds with the smallest of groans, like this is something he needed but dared not ask for. He pulls her even closer, kissing her back with all of the fervor of a man balancing on the edge of a chasm. His fingers are tight, holding on, but it isn’t about sex—this is need, pure and simple. The need for closeness, for reassurance. They almost lost one another today, and Karen hasn’t quite let herself contemplate that too much. If she does, she fears she won’t ever want to leave this church basement.

They aren’t going to lose one another. She won’t let it happen.

* * *

She wakes in the early morning; there are voices near the door. The space beside her is empty, and that makes Karen blink into the darkness. She hears footsteps against the wood floor, then the lightest of touches. Someone pulls the blanket up and over her shoulder, smoothing it into place.

“Hey,” Karen murmurs, reaching up to catch his hand. She would recognize those calluses anywhere.

“Hey.” Frank kisses her knuckles, then gently places her hand on the pillow. “Go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I’m going to grab some things. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

She sits up. “Frank…”

“I’ll be back,” he repeats, and kisses her cheek. Then he pulls back and she listens to him walk to the half-open door, sees his silhouette framed in the hallway light, then the door quietly shuts behind him.


	8. Tracing

Frank returns to his apartment before dawn.

There is police tape across the door, but Frank unlocks it and ducks beneath the barrier.

There are bullet holes in the living room walls. The coffee table is overturned and there is broken glass on the floor. He can see where Poindexter bled, where Karen’s purse fell—a knife still embedded in it. 

He surveys the aftermath with a kind of detachment; his own emotions are caged, held back because the moment he allows himself to feel them, he’ll do something unwise. 

This was his and Karen’s home. And now it’s shattered, the illusion of safety gone, and he knows they’ll never spend another night here. When this is all over, they’re going to have to find a new place. 

On the fridge is a printout—black and white, a little blurry. And Karen isn’t entirely wrong: the kid does look a little like an avocado. He pulls the ultrasound from the fridge, folding and tucking it into his breast pocket.

Something to hold onto in the coming days. 

Then he goes to the bookshelf, where the framed picture of his family rests. This, too, he takes with him.

There are other, less sentimental items to be packed: some of Karen’s clothing, phone chargers, toothbrushes, and her prenatal vitamins. Then, he goes to the closet. It looks like any other closet in the apartment, and the cops wouldn’t have given it a second glance. It is a little narrower than it should be—but only someone with the schematics of the room would notice. Frank slides his fingers into the false side and pulls. It comes free, swinging on silent hinges. A small armory is hidden there: guns, ammo, a few knives, and armor. He takes the bulletproof vest first: it’s matte black, meant for stealth rather than the Punisher’s flare. Then he begins sorting through the weapons. He’s already carrying a Glock—and it’s even licensed to Pete Castiglione, private security contractor. He wonders what Homeland thinks of his new choice of careers, but at least he’s managed to stay out of trouble. Mostly he trains new bodyguards and looks over travel plans for politicians and actors.

He adds a SIG Sauer to the backpack, along with several boxes of ammo, two knives, a few smoke grenades, and his first aid kit.

He gazes at the bed for a few heartbeats. There are still blonde hairs clinging to the pillows—both of them, for all that Karen braids her hair before bed. He’s found her hair everywhere: on his clothes, swept up from the floor, in the shower, even on his bulletproof vest after the incident with Fisk. It’s just one of those things about living with her—and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He goes into the bathroom. This place is untouched—it still smells of floral shampoo. Frank pulls the cupboard open and pulls out a new razor. The metal shines bright, and he glances into the mirror.

This isn’t going to end without a war.

He might as well be prepared.

* * *

He returns to the church around nine, and by that time, everyone’s awake and irritated. Frank can sense the tension the moment he enters the room: Karen is sitting a little apart from the others, her hands wrapped around a cup of herbal tea. She has never been a morning person, and this forced withdrawal from coffee has worsened it. Foggy and Marci sit together, eating bowls of what looks like oatmeal without much enthusiasm. It must be what the nuns gave them. Marci is wearing her clothes from last night and her mascara is smudged, but she still looks formidable. He knows what people look like when they’re willing to die to defend someone they love—and he sees that in her. He’s glad for Nelson.

As for Murdock—he’s sipping coffee and eating oatmeal with more contentment than his friends, but his face is pale from lack of sleep. He must have spent most of the night on the roof, waiting to see if Poindexter would come for them.

Frank strides into the room, heading for Karen. His hood is up, so she doesn’t realize until he’s a few strides away. “Frank,” she says, relieved. Then she blinks. “You—your beard. You shaved it.”

He did—and cut his hair. Because it’s too easy for an opponent to grab it.

“It’ll grow back,” he says. “When this is over.”

She smiles at him and—fuck, it’s like a kick to the gut. He’ll never take this for granted: someone who trusts him, who loves him.

He leans down and kisses her. “That’s going to take some getting used to,” she murmurs, running her fingers along his smooth cheek. “Where’d you go?”

“I needed a few things from the apartment.” He slides the backpack off of his shoulder, settling it between his feet. “And I went for donuts.”

“You didn’t.”

He sets a paper bag down on the table. Its edges are a little stained with grease, and when she tugs it open, the scents of warmed sugar and yeasted dough waft into the air. “You did,” she says, half-unbelieving, half-delighted. She pulls out a maple bar, bites into it, and makes a noise that she usually reserves for sex.

“There’s more than enough for all of you,” says Frank, glancing over at the others.

Marci blinks. “If you’re trying to bribe your way into my good graces—I have to tell you, this isn’t a bad start.”

“Same,” says Foggy.

Murdock just eats another bite of oatmeal. “You brought back more than donuts.”

Frank should have known Murdock would smell the gun oil coming off his backpack. “Nothing too exciting. Hard to lug around an AK in plain sight.”

“We’re leaving,” says Marci. She has a chocolate donut in hand, and her face is set in determined lines. “There’s a client in San Francisco that prefers to meet with his attorney in person, and he’d love another chance to speak with me. As for Foggy, he’s got a few days worth of vacation.”

“So I guess it’s Golden Gate Bridge time for us,” says Nelson. He looks both guilty and a relieved. “You could come with us.” That is directed at Karen.

And there is part of Frank, a not-so insignificant part, that wishes she would take them up on that offer.

She won’t. He knows she won’t. She’s brave and stubborn and furious—and he can’t force her to run. He tried to hide her once, and look at how that turned out. He won’t make the same mistake twice. All he can do is hope to find Poindexter before that bastard gets another chance to hurt her.

His fingers twitch, and he has to fight back a wave of fury. He won’t ever forget the sight of Karen on the floor of their apartment, one arm extended to Poindexter as if in supplication. The other hand was tight across her stomach, protectively trying to shield that tiny life inside of her. Blood dripped from Poindexter’s nose, but his face was utterly emotionless. As if he couldn’t comprehend why she would beg for her life.

Frank closes his eyes, trying to squeeze away the memory.

Some men need to be put down.

Murdock inhales sharply, and Frank glances at him. He wonders how much of that Murdock was able to read in his heartbeat and the adrenaline wicking off his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Karen says. “I appreciate it, though.” She reaches out and gives Nelson a hug. “You two stay safe, okay?”

“I feel like we should be telling you that,” replies Nelson and hugs her back. There’s a round of goodbyes, then Nelson and Marci slip out of a side door—after Murdock takes a few moments to listen.

Once they’re gone, Murdock says, “You’re planning on going to the hospital, aren’t you?”

Frank and Karen sit beside one another, his knee brushing hers. Karen is on her second donut and she looks a little more awake. “You heard us?”

“No,” says Murdock, “but it makes sense. Poindexter shouldn’t be up and walking. You’ll want to figure out why.”

Karen nods. “Yeah. From the way you told it, the fight was brutal.”

A flicker goes over Murdock’s face—as if he’s caught in a memory he’d rather not recall. Frank can sympathize with that much, at least.

“Poindexter kept trying to kill Vanessa,” he says slowly, as if every word takes thought. “Fisk was fighting him off, and it was one of the few times I saw him genuinely panicked. We both got in a few blows, but Poindexter kept throwing stuff. Finally, Fisk just picked him up and slammed him into the corner of a wall. The sound was…” He grimaces. “I heard the vertebrae break. Like grinding a mortar and pestle.”

Karen shivers. “It’s a starting point,” she says. “I’ll call around, see if I can figure out which hospital he was at—then we can go. Do some digging.”

Murdock nods. “I’m in.”

There’s a bit of preparation—guns to be loaded, calls to be made, and showers to be had. Karen vanishes for about an hour and reemerges wearing clean clothes and looking better. Her face is bare of make-up and her pale lashes look delicate when she closes her eyes. She sits at one of the pews, her phone resting against one thigh.

“I found the hospital,” she says, when Frank approaches. He leans against the back of the pew in front of her, his back to the altar.

“Knew you would,” he replies, with a small smile.

Karen doesn’t smile back. “In light of what happened the last time Poindexter was on the loose, Ellison’s closing the Bulletin offices for a few days. Told everyone to work from home,” she says quietly. “We’ll do the paper remotely. He called me in a panic this morning—he heard about the attack at my apartment. He offered to let us stay with them… but…”

Frank has never met Karen’s boss for a reason: Mitchell Ellison spent nearly as much time digging into Frank’s past as Karen did. Beard or no, he would probably recognize Frank in a matter of seconds. Telling Marci was a risk, but a calculated one; Nelson trusts her, and she was bound to run into Frank eventually. But Frank knows that Karen doesn’t want to put Ellison in the position of having to choose between his own morals and his loyalty to her—and she would never endanger Frank in such a way.

“You could go,” he says gently. “Tell them your boyfriend’s off on a job.” He knows that Ellison and his family are important to her, and she could rest more easily in a guest bedroom than in a church basement.

“No,” she says. “I won’t bring Ellison near this. He nearly died last time.” Her face tightens with memories. “I don’t want to see him hurt again.” She takes a breath. “How did the apartment look?”

“Like a disaster,” he says. “We’re going to have to find a new place to live, once this is all over.”

“And here I thought we were done with apartment hunting.”

He hesitates. He’s given this some thought—although he’s not sure how to approach it with her.

“What?” she says, when his silence goes on a little too long.

“I was thinking,” he says slowly, “it doesn’t have to be an apartment.”

She frowns. “You want to buy a condo or something?”

“A house,” he replies. “We’re going to need more space. We’d have needed to find a new place to live, regardless of the shoot-out. A one-bedroom set-up isn’t going to work for long. And…” He rubs at his chin, trying to think of how to say this. “I—I don’t know. Kind of wanted a place that’s ours.”

It has been a long time since he put down any roots. But he wants something permanent, something wholly theirs.

“That’s a big step,” she says. But she doesn’t sound opposed to the idea.

“Bigger than having a kid?”

“Point taken.” She runs her hand over her stomach. “Let’s deal with one thing at a time, okay? We’ll figure out Poindexter, then where we’re going to live.”

“Agreed. You sure I can’t talk you into going with Foggy and Marci?” he says. “San Francisco’s nice this time of year.”

She smiles, but it vanishes after a few moments. “I’m not leaving. Dex—Poindexter. That mess at the Bulletin was because of something I chose to do.” She takes a shaky breath. “It was my fault he went after people I knew, people I worked with and liked. I chose to bring a witness there. Everyone that died—that’s partly on me.”

“No,” he says. He places his fingertips at her chin, gently tilting her head so she has to look him in the eye. Her skin is soft beneath his fingers. “That’s blood on other mens’ hands, not yours. You did the right thing, and you still ended up with losses. That happens, Karen. Particularly when you’re fighting against bad people. Doesn’t mean you failed.”

“Still hurts,” she says.

“Yeah, it does.” He kisses the corner of her mouth. It’s a brief touch, and she leans into it. “It isn’t happening again, you got that? We’re going to stop him.”

* * *

The plan is a simple one. Karen and Matt go the hospital’s ER. She’ll tell the nurses that she’s pregnant, that she fell, and she’s sure it’s probably just her being paranoid, but could they please check and—

A pregnant woman and her blind boyfriend won’t be looked at with suspicion.

As for Frank, he dons scrubs and goes in through the basement, his phone set to vibrate. He walks briskly, like he belongs there, and no one gives him a second glance.

 _You sure you can do this?_ Frank asked, when Karen outlined her plan.

She gave him a flat look. _It’s simple: when the doctor has their station unlocked, Matt’ll do something. I don’t know—we’ll come up with a distraction to get them to leave the room. Spill something maybe._

 _No one ever gets mad at the blind guy_ , said Matt, with a wry twist of his mouth. _It would make them an asshole._

 _And then we dig into Poindexter’s files_ , said Karen. _Find out who treated him. If there are files on hand, we’ll tell you where to get them._

There’s a gun tucked beneath Frank’s shirt. The fabric is baggy enough to hide the holster and weapon, and he feels better with the familiar weight strapped against him. He’s wearing plastic gloves—partly for the uniform and partly so he won’t leave prints.

He gets the text from Karen more quickly than he thought he would: _Doctor Kenji Oyama, orthopedic surgeon. Room 524. Matt will meet you there._

Frank slips his phone back into his pocket and strides for the nearest staircase. This floor seems to be mostly offices, but no one asks why he’s there. Frank strides through the swinging double-doors, down the hall, and sees a familiar form walking through the hall. Murdock has his cane and his glasses, and he looks utterly harmless.

It’s a good cover. Frank might have been fooled, if he hadn’t seen Murdock fight.

“Door’s on your left,” says Frank, walking toward him. “You hear anyone in there?”

Murdock tilts his head. “The office is empty. The one beside it is, too. Still, we should do this fast.”

It’s noon, which means that hopefully most of the surgeons will be out to lunch. Frank pulls out bump key—he doubts the offices will have little more than the basic lock. He slides the key into place, bounces the heel of his hand against the key, and twists. The door opens soundlessly. “I’ll look through his filing cabinet,” says Frank. “You tell me if anyone’s headed this way.”

There’s a single cabinet with two shelves. Frank pulls the bottom one first, hoping patients will be organized by last name. He’s right—and he begins flipping through the p’s.

“This place smells strange,” Murdock murmurs. He runs his fingers across the desk, then brings his hand to his nose. “Like metal.”

“The filing cabinet is made of metal.”

“Wrong kind,” Murdock replies. “This one is… uncommon. I’ve never smelled it before.”

Frank sifts through the papers until he finds the right name.

_Poindexter, Benjamin_

He pulls out the file and opens it, glancing through the contents. There’s a print-out of a spine, along with notes written in a scrawled handwriting. _T8 & T9,_ it reads. There isn’t time to study it in depth. “Take this.” He hands the folder to Murdock. “Tuck it under your jacket or something.”

Murdock nods. “Meet you back at the church in half an hour?”

“We shouldn’t go back there,” Frank says. “It’s too obvious. And not easy to defend.”

“I’m still hoping to catch Poindexter,” Murdock says. “If we could hand him over to the FBI—”

Frank snorts. “We really going to have this conversation now?”

“I don’t see any other time to do it.” Murdock stands in front of the door, arms folded. “Listen. I get it. Frank—I was there when Poindexter attacked the Bulletin. I couldn’t stop him, and it’s something I have to live with. But do you think the families of everyone he killed would prefer seeing justice done—or in never knowing what happened to him? Because if you kill him, if he just vanishes, all of those people will never have peace.”

Frank breathes. He has to—in and out, because this strikes too close to home. Murdock has always been hard to argue with because he believes every goddamn word he says. It would be easier to fight with a non-believer, with someone who could waver, but faith is something that can’t be talked down. And Murdock still has faith—in God, in the justice system, in the overall goodness of humanity.

Frank doesn’t know if that pisses him off or makes him jealous.

“Listen,” he begins to say, but he goes silent.

There’s a buzzing sound—and then the lights die.

Frank blinks into the sudden darkness. He reaches for the switch, flicks it back and forth.

“Did the power just go?” he says, and Murdock tilts his head.

“No lights on this floor,” he says, and opens the door. They step outside together—there are a few other people poking heads out of offices, asking if anyone knows what’s going on. A few people turn on cell phones, using them as flashlights.

“This is a hospital,” says Frank, quietly. “Isn’t there supposed to be emergency power?”

Murdock begins walking toward the stairs. His face is starkly pale in the dim light.

“What is it?” asks Frank.

“Gunfire,” says Murdock, “two floors below.”

Frank’s heartbeat quickens. “Where’s Karen?”

“She was getting an ultrasound when I left her,” says Murdock. He swallows. “Maternity care. Two floors below.”


	9. Darkening

Hospital gowns are terrible.

Whoever designed them was a sadist, Karen decides, as she glances at herself in a mirror. She feels more naked than if she were simply nude—and the material is itchy. But still, this was the only way to get into the hospital, they do need more information on Poindexter. The visit will be worth it… or it will be once Karen’s done getting an ultrasound, a check-up, some blood work done, and who knows what else.

Turns out that the ER nurse on duty really didn’t want to take any chances with a reporter that might write an expose on hospital practices. So Karen is getting the works.

She is wheeled into the maternity ward, despite her protests that she can walk just fine. Her clothes and purse are stashed in a exam room, and she finds herself on a table, with a kindly doctor smearing gel on her stomach. “First pregnancy?” asks the doctor brightly. Karen nods. “Well, let’s take a quick look.”

About fifteen minutes later, Karen is holding another ultrasound printout. She’s going to have to start a scrap book or something. In this picture, the fetus looks a little less like an avocado and a little more like a tiny alien.

“They get cuter once they’re older,” says the doctor, when she sees Karen’s raised eyebrows. “Less like ET.”

“Thanks,” Karen says dryly. “Does everything look good?”

“Yes, and we should have your discharge papers pretty soon. You should get some rest and hydrate—dizziness isn’t uncommon at this stage, so take it easy. You don’t want to fall again. You get dressed, and we’ll get someone to walk you out.”

Karen nods dutifully, and when the doctor leaves, she begins pulling on her clothes. It’s a relief to get dressed.

She’s in the act of pulling on a boot when the lights go out.

Karen freezes—there are no windows in her room, no source of natural light. She scrambles for her purse, coming up with her cell phone.

She turns on the flashlight and shines it around the room, reorienting herself.

Is there a power outage? She pulls open the exam room door and steps out—she isn’t the only one. There are several people, patients and nurses alike, all shining cell phones at one another. “—Going on?” a woman is saying. Karen slings her purse around her neck.

“Must be some kind of electrical issue.”

“Aren’t hospitals supposed to have back-up power? What about people in surgery?”

“Generators are are in the basement,” says another doctor, walking by. “I’m sure someone’s seeing to them.”

The nurses are ushering patients back into their rooms with orders to stay there. Probably to prevent more injuries—Karen can imagine people getting jostled in the dark.

Karen doesn’t return to the exam room.

A prickle of unease travels up her arms, across her shoulders. She stands in the doorway, trying to listen through the chatter and the noise.

She learned to trust her instincts over the years. She’s had enough terrifying incidents to recognize the way her body reacts—the tightening muscles, the slight chill in her fingertips, the way all of her senses seem to sharpen.

Something’s wrong.

Karen slips a hand into her purse, touches the gun in a side pocket. She’s sure it’s probably not approved of to carry weapons into a hospital, but she knows better than to go unarmed right now. Her fingers curl around the handle, and she glances up and down the hallway. Stairs. She should find stairs—the elevators probably won’t be working.

According to their plan, Matt was supposed to return to this floor and she and him would return to the church, meeting Frank there in half an hour. But there’s no sign of Matt.

“You should go back in your room,” a nurse says, when he sees Karen standing there. “Ma’am—”

A noise makes Karen stiffen.

It isn’t the deafening blast of a gunshot—no, it’s softer. More of a _whump_ than a _crack._

Silenced gunfire is an oxymoron. She remembers Frank telling her about it in bed one time, after they watched a stupid action movie. She was in bed, his arm curled around her, the rise and fall of his chest lulling her to sleep. _No way to make something that loud completely silent. But a suppressor can make it quieter, more unidentifiable. It only lasts a few shots, too, but sometimes that’s all you need._

“Someone’s attacking the hospital,” Karen says, keeping her voice low.

“What?” The nurse seems more confused than afraid. “Ma’am, I’m sure—”

There’s a scream. It rips through the air, setting Karen’s every nerve aflame with adrenaline, then—it just goes silent. Cuts off far too quickly.

The nurse begins to shake. He looks back and forth along the hallway, his jaw hardening. “Get the patients in their rooms,” he snaps, to another nurse. “Call the cops.” He puts a hand out to Karen. “Go back inside. We’ve got this—”

Karen doesn’t see it happen. Her cell phone’s light is angled down the hall, at the wrong angle. She isn’t looking at the nurse—so she doesn’t see the jerk and spasm, not until she hears him gasp.

There is a noise—like hitting a wall with a closed fist. Loud, but not too loud.

The nurse falls and Karen jerks back, her gun in hand. She see the figure—at the very end of the hallway. He is little more than a smudge in the dark, dressed in black fatigues. But she knows it’s him—she recognizes the graceful step as he begins to approach, the gait of a predator. He expects her to run, to hide.

Karen raises her gun and fires.

She won’t hit him, she knows that. Distance shooting is a game best won with rifles. But she sees Poindexter flinch, step out of the line of fire. Compared to his suppressed weapon, hers is deafening.

There is screaming now. The sound of fear rises through the building, and Karen tries to ignore it.

He’s here for her. She has to get out, to leave before anyone else can get hurt. Karen fires off another round; she didn’t pack extra ammo, so every shot has to count. Poindexter vanishes through an open hallway—probably intending to take a roundabout route, trying to cut her off.

She needs to get to the stairs.

She flicks her flashlight off; it’s too dangerous. Keeping her pistol aimed at the floor, Karen steps back, trying to remember which direction the stairs are—to her right, she thinks. She moves quickly, but not so quickly that she’ll trip. She strains for any sound of him, but there are people crying, the sound of muffled talk, the clatter of people bumping into things.

Karen rounds a corner—all she can see is abandoned machines and a few doorways. She goes that way; she needs to put some distance between herself and Poindexter. This is a game of cat and mouse she can’t win—but she has to escape.

Not only for her own sake.

She rounds another corner, gaze darting in one direction, then the other—

An arm loops around her waist and Karen is pressed into the wall, a body against hers. She snarls and tries to bring her gun up, fingers clawing at Poindexter’s wrist, trying to break his grasp on her.

“Karen,” a low voice says, and she goes still. It isn’t Poindexter.

“Frank?” she whispers. No wonder he pushed her to the wall, his body between her and the hallway. Her free hand lands on his chest; she can feel his heartbeat beneath his scrubs. “He’s here.”

“We know,” he says quietly. “Murdock heard the first shots.”

“The power’s out,” she whispers.

“I did notice that, yeah.”

“I mean,” she says, “where’s the back-up power? What’s going to happen to people on life support?”

She feels him tense. “Shit.”

“Where’s Matt?”

“Trying to find Poindexter. The dark doesn’t matter to him.” Frank’s hand curls around her shoulder. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“But what about the power?” she says. “Emergency generators are in the basement—I heard someone say that. We need to—”

Frank moves before she can finish; one moment, she’s speaking, and the next Frank yanks her away from the wall and shoves her behind a scanner, metal flashing in the darkness. She hears something shatter—the glass window of an exam room, probably—and then Frank fires a shot. She smells burning metal and smoke—and then there’s a clang. Footsteps, then—

A spark, then brilliant red light. A flare, like those used in traffic, is tossed down the hallway. Frank snarls and puts Karen behind him. She feels like a sheep with a particularly overzealous sheepdog herding her down the hallway. In the red, smoky light, Karen sees Poindexter. He looks like something risen from a nightmare—a skull’s smile on his face and a knife between his fingers. “Come on,” he says. “I came all the way here for you and you’re just going to run?”

They round a corner, and Frank says, “Get to the basement. Stairs are around the corner, on your left. Turn on the generators if you can. If you can’t, run.”

“Frank—”

“I can’t fight him and protect you,” he says. 

Her senses seem too sharp—all she can smell and see is red and smoke, sparks and burning. There are people probably dying in the ICU, all because a killer followed them here.

“Be careful,” she says. Her hand finds his arm—and she squeezes hard. There isn’t time for a kiss or any soft words, not when every moment feels too fast and too sharp.

She turns and runs. She can barely make out the shape of the door, but her hand finds the handle and she pushes it open. The stairwell’s air is cleaner, and the moment the door swings shut behind her, she feels better. And hates herself for feeling that—because she just left Frank in danger. It doesn’t matter that he can take care of himself; she has lost too many people to Poindexter not to be afraid.

She turns on her phone’s light and hastens down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Finally, she sees the door labeled “basement” and pushes it open. The air is damp and a little too warm, like that of a boiler room. Karen shines her cell phone around, walking past pipes and storage rooms, past machinery that looks like it belongs in a museum—old MRI machines and other equipment that she can’t identify.

She finds the generators after what feels like an eternity of searching.

There’s a dead man beside them. He is older and wears a janitor’s uniform, and the sight of him makes Karen want to vomit.

“Shit,” she breathes. Poindexter must have come here first, disabled the emergency power. She steps around the man, trying not to inhale too deeply. The generators are huge—like a small storage shed caged behind fencing. The padlock is broken, and Karen steps inside, angling her light to see the controls. She slips her gun back into her purse and begins looking over the machinery.

They look complicated and unknowable—but then she flips open a panel and sees a switch— _On, Auto, Off._

It’s switched to _Off._

Karen reaches for the switch, but then she hears someone moving behind her.

Fuck.

Karen drops low, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle her breathing. She still has her gun, but it’s in her purse and—

“Karen?”

She nearly goes limp with relief. “Matt?”

Matt’s familiar form steps into the light of her cell phone. “What are you doing here?” he says.

“Turning on the power.” She glances at the generators. “What are you…?”

“Following Poindexter.”

“You lost him,” she says. “He’s upstairs, with Frank.”

“No,” says Matt, “he isn’t.”

Those words fall between them, and Karen’s breathing quickens.

“You need to get out of here,” says Matt. “Go and—”

“Just a second,” she says.

Because she can’t have people die here—they can’t have another massacre like the Bulletin. Karen turns back to the generator, takes a breath, then grabs the lever and slams it into the _‘On’_ position. There’s a grumbling sound from within, and then a roar of machinery. For a moment, Karen isn’t sure that they’ve made any difference—but then a row of emergency lights glow along the floor. Karen lets out a startled, relieved laugh that even she can’t hear. She glances to Matt; he seems to be wincing at the loud noise.

She gestures toward the stairs, realizes that he might not be able to sense the gesture with all of this racket, then reaches for his arm.

Then she sees the figure step around the generator—clad in black fatigues, smiling, a gun raised.

There isn’t time to go for her weapon.

Karen seizes Matt and falls, dragging him to the floor. She feels the bullet tear through her jacket; there’s a sickening little tug, and then she is scrambling along the floor, trying to keep as low as she can, still gripping Matt. He stumbles, but follows along, fear and frustration written across his face. Matt doesn’t sense able to sense Poindexter, not with the rumbling vibrations and the noise. And that was probably why Dex sabotaged the generator in the first place.

This was part of his plan. Karen rushes around the generator, trying to put something between them and—

A bullet ricochets off of a piece of machinery. Matt jerks in her grip and she says his name—but it is lost in the noise. He staggers, but keeps going, and together they rush toward the stairs. Karen digs into her purse, fingers wrapping around the handle of her pistol. She pulls it free, fires two shots the way they came—it’s little more than cover fire, not intending to truly hit anything, but hopefully it’ll make Poindexter think twice before rushing after them.

The emergency lights have come on in the stairwell, and Karen is gasping by the time they reach the second floor. The sound of the generator fades behind them, and Karen says, “Were you hit?”

Matt is panting. “Grazed—hip. I’ll be fine.”

A glance, and she sees blood streaming down his pants. There isn’t anything they can do right now, not with Dex at their heels. Karen shoves the stairwell door open and hurries into the hallway. Her gaze rips one direction, then another—there’s chaos. Nurses are bustling from room to room, babies are screaming, and people crying out. The lights are back on, at least, some of them. The comforting hum of machinery has returned, and Karen hopes that any patients on life support or in surgery will be okay.

Still, none of them are safe here. 

“We need to evacuate them,” says Matt, clearly on the same page. “Poindexter has no issues killing civilians. We need to—”

For the third time in her life, Karen breaks the glass of a fire alarm and yanks it on. At once, the siren blares through the hallway.

“—That works,” Matt says, over the din. He smiles, and there’s a slight edge to it. He doesn’t seem to be feeling the pain of his wound; the chaos and the violence seems to rouse something in him—a sharp, keen edge that she’s only ever seen in court. Matt Murdock may be a believer and a protector, but this is something else she knows about him: he revels in this. He lives for battle as much as Frank.

“Get Frank,” says Matt. “Get out of here. I’ll wait for Poindexter.”

“Matt—”

“I drove him to this,” Matt says. “I told him about Julie—I pushed him over the edge. If anyone should deal with this, it’s me.” He puts a hand on Karen’s shoulder. “Get out of here. Grab as many people as you can, and get them out.”

Her jaw clenches. Matt knows her well enough to play on her desire to keep anyone else from getting hurt in this battle. She nods, tightly says, “Don’t let him kill you.”

Matt’s smile sharpens. “He won’t.”

Something explodes beside Karen’s ear—she cries out, falling to her knees. There’s something in her hair, cutting into her right ear, and she scrabbles at her head. For a heartbeat, she wonders if she’s been shot, then she sees the shattered “EXIT” sign sparking above her. Wires spill out of it, glass all around her.

Poindexter shot that, instead. A warning shot. A cat toying with prey. He stands about twenty feet away, posture loose and relaxed.

“Go,” Matt snarls, and rushes Poindexter. He throws a baton, bounces it off the wall—and it slams into Dex’s wrist. The gun hits the ground, and then Matt is on top of him, fists flying faster than Karen’s eyes can follow. Dex fights back with less grace but nearly as much skill, blocking with a forearm, nimbly ducking beneath another blow, and throwing a punch at Matt’s wounded thigh. Karen raises her own gun, but they’re too close. She isn’t confident enough in her shoot not to hit Matt. With a curse, she lowers her pistol and turns to run.

There are still a few people in the hallway—a woman clearly in labor, being wheeled along by another woman bleeding from the head. She must have been hit by the falling glass of the exit sign.

“Here,” says Karen, and takes hold of the wheelchair. “I’ve got this—put pressure on your head.” She strips out of her jacket and holds it out. The woman nods, dazed, and does as Karen says. The three of them rush as fast as they can down the hallway, which is to say, not fast enough. Karen can feel Dex’s gaze on her like a weight, and she yearns to rush around a corner, to put something between herself and his attention.

“Ka—”

She hears Matt’s warning a fraction of a second before the whisper of air.

Something hard and metal cracks against flesh. Karen waits for pain, for the agony to make itself known—but then the woman beside her cries out and falls to the floor.

There’s a bit of pipe embedded in her upper back. She keeps reaching for it, as if trying to rip it out. The scent of metal and blood seems to hit Karen in one nauseating wave; she has to breathe through her mouth. “Shit,” she says. “Don’t—don’t touch it.”

The woman is panting, and Karen has never truly believed a person can smell fear—but now she understands what Matt must mean when he talks about sensing emotions. Panic rolls off this woman in waves, paralyzing her in place.

The woman in labor wheezes, “Help her—I can walk.” She begins to rise from the chair, one arm around her stomach, hospital gown slipping down her shoulder. She’s clearly in discomfort, but determination is written across her face. Karen gets the other woman’s uninjured arm, tries to haul her to her feet. They move together, unwieldy and slow, and Karen listens to the sound of the fight behind her, hating every moment that she can’t help.

It’s only when they get to the stairs that Karen realizes precisely how screwed they all are—the elevators aren’t working; the generators are designed for emergency power. And Karen is already supporting one woman; the other is sweating and wobbling with every step. “Shit,” Karen breathes. “Shit, shit—” 

They can’t do this—so all they can hope to do is put some distance between themselves and Poindexter. “Come around the corner, come on.” Together, they stagger down another hallway, until the injured woman buckles and falls to the linoleum floor.

Gunfire rings out behind her. Karen winces, then looks up. In the glow of the emergency lights, Frank looks every inch the Punisher—red light glancing off his sharp, shaven jaw, eyes like dark chips of granite, his mouth tight with fury. He moves like a force of nature.

His gaze lands on her, and she sees him relax a fraction. Then he snaps off two more shots, snarls, and says, “Hit him in the shoulder. He’s running.”

Karen leans against a wall, breathing hard. “Matt?”

“Following him.” Frank’s attention swings from the hallway, scattered with debris and broken glass, then back to Karen and the other two women. His indecision lasts less than a second. “Come on, we need to get them out.”

Frank shoves his gun into his shoulder holster, then reaches for the injured woman. He lifts her as carefully as he can, while Karen gets an arm around the pregnant woman’s shoulders. It’s still slow, but they make their way to the first floor. There are others in the stairwell—some older, some younger and crying. More grim-faced nurses bustle patients with them, and in his scrubs, Frank at least blends in with them well enough that no one gives him a second glance.

They spill out a side door, and Karen hears the whine of sirens, sees the flash of ambulance lights. Her heart pounds, but Frank carries the injured woman to one of the EMTs, and helps settle her onto a gurney. There are police everywhere, talking into radios, guns in hand, directing people to get behind a line. Karen stumbles along with everyone else, reaching for Frank as soon as she can. 

“We can’t stay here,” she says urgently. He’s too recognizable right now—shaven face, blood spattered across his scrubs. Even if his gun is tucked out of sight, he still has the look of a soldier.

Frank nods curtly. His hand falls to her back, and they half-jog, half-walk toward the parking lot. They don’t draw attention, thank goodness. Everyone is trying to get away from the hospital, crying, bleeding, panicking—it’s terrible, and Karen feels sick looking at everyone. She doesn’t know how many casualties there were, how many lives Poindexter took, but there will be more bodies. There always are, where he’s concerned.

They get to Karen’s car. Miraculously, her purse is still around her shoulder, and she begins rummaging around for her keys. Her hands are shaking so badly that she can’t pick them up.

Frank’s hands cover hers. He squeezes gently, it’s as if the tremors travel up her arms, into her whole body. She can’t stop trembling, and then she’s pressed up against Frank’s chest, his voice soft in her ear. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, we’re okay.”

“All of those people,” she whispers. “Fuck. Fuck. We brought him here, we led him—”

He doesn’t answer, and her own words dissolve into a wordless sob.

Hormones. It’s got to be hormones. She finally manages to unearth her keys, and Frank takes them. She knows she isn’t fit to drive right now. “Matt,” she says.

“We follow the plan,” Frank says. “Meet back at the church. Murdock can take care of himself. We need to leave before this place is completely cordoned off.”

Karen nods, and gets into the car.

They arrive at the church about an hour later. Frank insists on taking yet another roundabout route, and by the time they arrive, Karen feels a bit more herself. They go in through that side door, bypassing any churchgoers who might see them. Frank is still dressed in bloody scrubs and Karen’s clothes are ruined, too. Some of the glass cut her right ear, and it’s crusted with blood. They look like they stepped out of a war—which, it feels like they did. One of the nuns catches sight of them and says, “Bathroom. I’ll get Sister Maggie.”

Frank nods. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Karen ends up sitting on the toilet lid while Frank checks her ear, carefully removing a sliver of glass. “Hope you wanted another piercing here, because you’ve got one.”

She snorts, and it feels good to be able to laugh, if only for a moment. “I was never that into piercings. Not a big fan of needles.”

Once they’re clean and dressed in fresh clothing, they find Sister Maggie outside of the bathroom. “Is Matt here?” asks Karen, her heartbeat picking up.

Maggie nods. “Arrived about two minutes ago. He went downstairs—you should join him.”

They descend the stairs, into the basement room where they slept last night. The lamps are all turned on, and there’s another pitcher of water waiting for them. Matt sits on one of the beds, stripped down to boxers and a shirt. She can see the place where the bullet hit him—it dug a furrow along his hip, but the bleeding is sluggish. Matt grimaces as he pours a bit of water over the wound.

“Hey,” says Karen, relieved.

Matt smiles, but it’s a forced expression. “Hey. Good, you both made it out.”

“What happened?” says Frank. Without a word, he goes to the first aid kit sitting open on the bedside table, and pulls out a clean bandage.

“He ran,” says Matt, wincing as Frank presses down. “He kept throwing things at patients, and I had to keep blocking the shots. Couldn’t get in a good hit myself. He finally went out a side door, shot two police officers that were approaching, then took one of their cars.”

“Shit.” Karen crosses her arms over her stomach. “He’s still out there?”

“Yes.” Matt reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled folder. “We have this, though. Maybe it’ll give us some answers.”

Karen takes the folder, eagerly flipping it open. There are print-outs of x-rays and plenty of notes in a scrawled handwriting.

This—this she can work with. Information, figuring things out.

“One thing I do know,” Matt says, “is that he smelled like metal.”

“He was carrying weapons,” says Karen, but Matt shakes his head.

“He smelled like the metal in the surgeon’s office,” he replies. “I’ve never… it’s a scent I’ve never encountered before. It’s strange. And the way he reacted when I hit him—I threw a few punches that should have at least injured him, but it was like he didn’t even react. Maybe he’s on something.”

“That would explain a lot,” says Karen, turning another page. “Maybe we should—”

There’s a sound at the stairs. Karen glances up to see Sister Maggie walking toward them. Her mouth is tense. “You should turn on the news.”

Karen pulls her phone out of her pocket and checks Twitter instead—she follows enough reporters that it’s basically the same thing.

The first tweet she sees is—

She wavers in place. 

Stumbles, then finds herself sitting on one of the beds. “Karen?” Frank rises from his crouch. “What’s wrong?”

Karen can’t answer. All of her words are simply gone. So she holds out her phone. He takes it, and she watches his expression go from concerned to wide-eyed.

_PUNISHER ATTACKS HOSPITAL - ESCAPE AIDED BY BULLETIN REPORTER?_

And beneath is a picture. 

Someone must have snapped it with their cell phone in the hospital parking lot.

Frank and Karen, arms around one another, blood spattering them both.


	10. Resolving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this a little early for Mother’s Day!

Karen Page stands on a dock near the river.

She has her phone in hand. There are forty-seven text messages.

The first ten are from Foggy—all laced liberally with profanity and demands to know if she’s all right. Next, Ellison. She hasn’t read those; she doesn’t want to. Others are from coworkers, a few from acquaintances, and some numbers are unknown. The picture of her and Frank has made it onto every news website in the New York area, and her Twitter mentions resemble a bonfire. She considers locking it down, but that would be an admission of guilt.

She runs her thumb over the screen, closing out of Twitter. The phone rings—it’s been ringing on and off for nearly two hours. She hasn’t picked up.

Now, she recognizes the name written across the screen.

_Brett Mahoney._

She considers letting it go to her full voicemail box, then shakes her head. She hits ‘accept’ and brings the phone to her ear. “Hey, Brett.”

“Karen.” He sounds relieved. “Thank God. Are you okay? I know you were at the hospital—I saw some of the pictures.”

“I’m fine.” Even as she says the words, she wonders if they’re true. She feels removed from it all.

“You need to come in,” says Brett. And he sounds so earnest that her heart aches. “Listen, what happened in that hospital—we can figure it out. You’ll give a statement—”

“He didn’t do this, you know that,” she says.

Brett is silent for a moment. “Do I, Karen?”

“You’re a cop,” she says. “A good one.” She means that in more ways than one—because Brett is good at his job and just a decent human being. “You know this isn’t his MO.”

“All I know,” says Brett heavily, “is that there are multiple reports and pictures of the Punisher being seen at the hospital, something about power sabotage and a gunfight. If you helped him—Karen, I know this isn’t the first time. If there’s something else going on, something I should know about—shit. Is he trying to take down Poindexter himself? Is that what happened?”

Karen goes quiet, which is answer enough.

“This is what cops are supposed to do,” says Brett. “Not vigilantes. And I get it, he has a soft spot for you. But—“ He breaks off, then restarts. “Karen, I need you to come into the station. We’ll get you into protective custody. You don’t need him to keep you safe. We can do that.”

Karen lets out the smallest of laughs.

“Am I to believe,” she says, “that I won’t be thrown in an interrogation room the moment I walk into the station?”

There’s another silence, and Karen can read it just as well as Mahoney. “I thought so,” she says.

“Karen.” This time there’s a note of warning in his voice. “I can’t help you if you don’t come in.”

“Have you searched my apartment yet? Talked to my neighbors?” she says sharply.

Quiet, then an inhalation.

“Karen,” he says. He keeps saying her name, like he’s trying to remind her that they are on a first name basis. “There are other cops who won’t be as polite as I am now. I’m asking you to come in.”

“So you aren’t tracing this call?”

“Of course we are.” This time Brett sounds a little angry. “And I know exactly where you are. The fact the dock isn’t swarming with police—it’s because I think you’re a decent person, and you want to do the right thing. Come down to the station. Tell me about Castle. And if you won’t do it because it’s the right thing, do it for yourself. Protect yourself, protect your child. I can’t help you like this. Not with you running around, helping a known murderer. We still have orders to shoot if we have to, and I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

Part of her wants to. She wants to explain to Mahoney, tell him about all of it. Confession is a powerful thing, and she knows why Matt goes every week.

“I’m sorry, Brett,” she says. “But I’m not coming in. Not yet. And definitely not without a lawyer.”

“Talk to me, Karen. Just—tell me why. Why are you protecting him?”

She gazes out at the river. “I told you why. Last time we talked. You gave me half of your sandwich.”

It’s the closest she can come to the truth—and Brett Mahoney is a smart man. It takes about three seconds—she hears when the quality of the silence changes. Charges. Becomes tight and tense.

“Jesus Christ.” It’s barely a whisper. “Karen. He’s not…”

“Be careful, Brett,” she says. “Poindexter’s dangerous.”

She ends the call. Her hands are shaking slightly as she brings her arm back, then flings the phone as hard as she can into the river.

Walking along the dock, she returns to the car waiting for her. It’s borrowed, not stolen. Or so Frank claims.

“Where to?” she says.

Matt sits in the backseat, next to the backpack that Frank took from their apartment.

They’ll never be able to return—which means everything they own is in that backpack. Frank’s hands are steady on the steering wheel. “Can’t go back to the church,” he says. “Your phone’s location can be tracked there.”

“Makes sense,” says Karen.

“All right,” says Matt. “So where’s your super secret hideout?”

* * *

“I can’t believe,” says Matt, “you gave me shit for hiding us at a church. When you took us. To another church.”

“Technically,” says Frank, setting the backpack down in a corner of the room, “it’s a basement in a church. I asked a friend if we could use it.” He takes two folding chairs from the rack and sets them up. “Hey.” His voice softens, and Karen knows he’s talking to her. “You sit down for a sec, all right? Curtis said he was on his way. Asked him to bring some food by. Then we’ll figure out where to go from here.” He strides out of the room, presumably to check the perimeter.

Karen doesn’t sit. She feels adrift and restless; she keeps reaching for a phone that isn’t there.

It feels like she severed some vital artery of her life—and she’s watching it bleed out.

Because here’s the thing: a person can’t work for a law office and not realize the implications of harboring a mass murderer.

Matt knows—he’s been grave ever since she read the tweets aloud, since they left the other church in a rush. “Karen,” he says. “I’m going out for a walk. See if I can… I don’t know. Do some listening in. I’ll check back around six, okay?”

In other words, he wants to go eavesdrop on a few cops.

She nods. Concern flickers across Matt’s face; she isn’t sure what he can sense coming off of her, but it makes him step closer, putting a hand on her arm. “I’m going to do everything I can,” he says quietly. “You know I care about you, Karen. Whatever happens, whatever you choose, I’m on your side.”

Her throat is too tight for her to answer aloud, so she hugs him instead. He hugs her back, and for a few moments, it feels like they could be years younger. In a time far less complicated, in a place far more familiar.

Matt walks out of the room, unsnapping his cane as he goes. She listens to his footsteps, and then the sound of a door opening and closing.

Everything has changed.

Everything _will_ change.

Karen sits in a metal chair, gazing blankly at a cross on the wall, and for once in her life, she doesn’t have a plan.

She hears Curtis arrive; he and Frank talk quietly in the hallway for a few minutes. Karen only catches bits of the conversation, half-listening and too numb to really care.

“—Know you, man. Don’t do something stupid.”

“Stupid like what?”

“I don’t know, but it’s you, Frank. You’ll think of something.”

A hoarse laugh. “Thanks.”

Curtis comes into the room, carrying a paper bag. He smiles at Karen, and she smiles back on reflex. She likes Curtis, she really does. He’s one of those guys that’s just genuinely good, and she enjoys talking with him. “Hey, you,” he says. “Heard you got all famous.”

“Too famous,” she answers. “I’m sorry to bring you into it.”

Curtis snorts. “This? This is nothing. On the list of shit Frank has asked me to do, grabbing take-out and giving him a place to hide for a few hours doesn’t even register.”

“Where is he?”

“I told him to go make some coffee,” says Curtis. “Figured we could talk for a minute or two.”

She smiles at him again, but it falters. She gestures at the room. “You think I need to talk something out?”

He nods. “We all do. That’s what I’ve learned, coming here week after week. Doesn’t matter who you are, what you’ve done. We all need someone to talk to. Sometimes, that can’t be the person closest to us. Because we’re afraid of hurting them. So we keep silent, swallow down whatever’s hurting us. You—you’ve got that look on your face right now that says you’re holding on tight. Just wanted to let you know that if you need to talk… whatever you say, it’s between us.”

It’s such an honest, earnest little speech that Karen finds herself blinking back tears.

“Hormones,” she says, when she can speak. “Fuck, I get weepy at dog food commercials these days. Anything’ll set me off.”

He just watches her, sitting a few feet away. She takes a few moments, trying to compose an answer.

“Everywhere I go,” she finally says, “there are bodies left behind. Every damn time. It’s my fault.” Her voice breaks and she has to look away. “I feel like some kind of toxin, eating into the lives of everyone around me. And I wonder if Frank wouldn’t have been better off if he hadn’t stayed with me.”

Curtis leans back in his chair. “I remember when it wasn’t too long after Frank finished taking out those gangs, when he was trying to live like a normal person again. I asked him what would make him happy and he said that happiness was a kick in the balls waiting to happen. That’s why he avoided anything that could tie him down, any kind of entanglements.” He nods at Karen, as if to encompass her. “You know what you are to him?”

A shudder wracks through her.

“A second chance,” Curtis says. “Well, actually more like a third. He tried to have a normal life after the carousel shootout, but then there was Amy and Billy and—fuck it, I forget what chance he’s on right now. Honestly, when he left New York nearly two years ago—I thought that was it. Frank Castle is dead, long live the Punisher.” He shakes his head. “He came back, though. And it wasn’t for me, or New York, or even that kid he spent so long trying to keep safe. He came back for you.”

“What are you saying, Curtis?”

He meets her eyes. “I’m saying that coming back and choosing to stay with you was probably the scariest thing Frank’s ever done. But he did it, because he thought you were worth it, and I think he made the right choice.”

She lets out a watery laugh. “And you know this how?”

“Because,” he says, “right now, there’s someone who wants you dead, and all you can think about are the people around you getting hurt.”

That silences her.

Curtis smiles, seemingly pleased. “You make him happy, you know that?”

She coughs. “He looked thrilled when I saw him last.”

“Well, not at the moment,” Curtis admits. “Right now, he’s scared out of his mind. Afraid to lose you and…” He gestures vaguely at her stomach. “You two settled on a name?”

“We’ve been calling them Avocado,” Karen says, managing to keep a straight face, even when Curtis blinks. He obviously tries to make a polite effort not to show his feelings about that name.

Frank walks into the room, bearing two cups of coffee.

“You have gone hipster on me, beard or not,” says Curtis, taking one of the cups.

Frank looks confused.

* * *

Curtis ducks out after only twenty minutes, telling Frank he’s going to keep watch and taking a sandwich with him.

“Why do all of our friends have a thing for roofs?” asks Karen.

Frank unpacks the food; it looks like Curtis stopped by a Vietnamese place. “Because my friend trained with sniper rifles and yours likes to play dress-up.”

Karen snorts. “I’m pretty sure at this point, they’re both our friends.”

“Murdock might disagree.”

“Matt likes being friends with everyone.” She leans back in her chair. “Well, except the guy who works in his building’s mail room.”

Frank laughs, and Karen remembers Curtis’s words from only a few minutes before: _you make him happy._

God, she hopes so.

“You want the noodles or the rice?” asks Frank, holding up two takeout boxes.

Karen’s stomach turns over at the thought. Stress has a tendency to kill her appetite—which was fine when she was a journalist on deadline and lived alone. Frank’s done more to keep her kitchen well-stocked than she ever has. “Not really hungry.”

Frank’s forehead creases with concern. “You should eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t press, which is one of the things she loves about him. He picks up the container of rice, and that makes her smile. She does usually prefer the noodles. “How’re you feeling, otherwise?”

Karen takes stock of herself. “Pretty normal. No heartburn, at least.” She reaches into her pocket and hands over a crumpled picture. “Here—the doctors gave this to me when they checked me out this morning. God, I can’t believe it was only this morning.”

Frank takes the paper from her hand. This ultrasound doesn’t look as much like an avocado—more like an alien. Or a bobblehead.

He traces one of the lines with a fingertip. She watches a few different emotions cross his face: wonder, a brief smile, then something harder. Like determination. He hands the paper back. She can guess what he’s thinking easily enough: that Poindexter is going to die a bloody, probably bone-crunching death. Which reminds her—

“We should study his file,” she says. “You still have it?”

“Tucked the papers into the backpack.”

She pulls out the file and flips it open, leafing through the pages. She skims the first one—just Poindexter’s basic information and a description of the injury. She flips to another page, which is another surgeon’s opinion that the broken vertebrae were unsalvageable. A few x-rays. An MRI image. And then—

_Experimental surgery_

Her breath quickens and she leans over the paper, eyes flicking across the words. Cogmium steel. This is what Matt must have smelled on Poindexter. His skeleton was reinforced with steel. Which doesn’t sound so odd—after all, people have broken bones pinned with titanium. But this must be different.

Before she can read more, Frank’s phone rings. It’s a burner—a cheap flip model. Pete Castiglione’s phone was tossed into a dumpster after Frank stomped on it a few times.

“Yeah?” says Frank. Then, “No, it’s fine. That’s Murdock.” He snaps the phone shut. “He’s back. Curt wanted to make sure he was with us.”

Karen sets the file on the other chair, rising as Matt strides into the room. He hasn’t bothered with the facade of his cane, and he’s a little out of breath. Like he ran here.

“What is it?” she says.

Matt swallows. “I got close enough to a few cops to listen in on their radios. There—there’s a warrant out for Karen’s arrest.”

A wave of dizziness hits her, and she forces herself to sit down. The metal chair still feels unsteady beneath her, like she’s aboard a ship on the high seas.

“For what?” Frank’s voice is little more than a growl.

“She’s being charged as an accessory,” says Matt. “On two counts of first degree murder.”

Karen lets out a laugh—but it’s a terrible little sound. A hollow echo of mirth. “Which ones?”

“Two men at a diner, it sounded like,” says Matt. He leans against the wall, curling in on himself a little. As if he doesn’t want to be the one to deliver this news. “And that’s just the charges they’ve managed to pull together in less than six hours. While all that stuff at the hotel with the suicide bomber seems to have blown over, Frank’s still wanted for the killing of DA Reyes. In addition to all of the original murders. Once they arrest Karen, the prosecution will be able to add more charges to the pile.”

“I didn’t kill Reyes—” Frank says hotly.

“We know you didn’t,” Karen puts in.

Matt’s jaw clenches. “Karen called in the murder of those two men at that diner, which puts her squarely at the scene. And while she obviously couldn’t have been in on the Reyes hit, she withheld information from the cops afterwards. We’re looking at obstruction at best and… she’ll probably be charged for aiding and abetting nearly every crime that occurred after the two of you met.” He exhales sharply, presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose. “We’re looking at prison time.”

“How much?” Karen says softly.

He doesn’t answer aloud, but he doesn’t need to. She can read the answer in the grim set of his shoulders.

“I can try to work out a deal, plead down the charges,” he says.

“Because Blake Tower will be so willing to listen.” Karen is suddenly glad she didn’t eat dinner; her stomach roils.

“What about the baby?” Frank says quietly.

“Pregnant women are sometimes incarcerated,” Matt replies. “It’s sad, but it happens. Maybe if Karen appoints a guardian, the baby can go with them after it’s born… but honestly, I don’t know.” He straightens, pushes away from the wall. “Listen, I’m going to call Foggy. Ask his opinion on all of this, maybe bring Marci into it, too. Three lawyers are better than one, right?” He makes an attempt to smile.

“Thanks, Matt,” Karen says, and squeezes his hand as he passes. He walks down the hall, his phone already in hand.

For a moment, there’s utter quiet. Numbness seems to have settled in the space between Karen’s muscles and bones; she feels removed, cold, as if she’s viewing this from an outsider’s perspective.

Frank begins to pace—back and forth, along the length of the room. His hands are fisted—all but for his right index finger, which keeps twitching. He would look rather threatening, if she didn’t know him so well. “You’re not going to prison.”

“Matt’ll figure something out. Maybe,” Karen hesitates, “maybe work out a house arrest thing.”

Frank scoffs. “It won’t take long for cops to be around our apartment. They’ll show pictures of me to our neighbors, and they’ll ID me. They’ll know we’ve been living together, that we’ve been together or over a year. The cops are pissed they never caught me, but catching the Punisher’s girlfriend—fuck, that’d be almost just as good. They’ll have us pegged as the new Bonnie and Clyde.” His eyes roam across the room, as if searching for a way out. “Everything I’ve done, it’ll spill over onto you.” With every word, he seems to be working himself up.

He looks like he did when Lewis Wilson grabbed her, when Frank was watching the situation unravel. There’s that same set around his jaw and mouth, the same low roughness to his voice. He mutters a few words, quietly, just to himself. Working out his thoughts—when he glances up at her, his face is set.

“You have to tell them I held you hostage,” he says. “I mean—according to the cops, I’ve already done it twice. Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to get the lawyers to claim Stockholm Syndrome.”

She rises to her feet. “Frank—”

His calm is hanging by a fraying edge. “Tell them I forced you. That you feared for your life. They’ll believe it. I’ll turn myself in—make a deal. I’ll confess to Reyes’ murder if they’ll give you immunity—”

“Fuck, no,” she snaps.

She remembers thinking less than an hour ago that Frank might be better off without her, and here he is declaring the same. They’re both idiots.

He rounds on her. “You’re not going to prison for me, Karen. Not like this—not ever.”

“And neither are you. They’ll kill you in prison, Frank. Do you know how many criminals want you dead?”

This is the thing Karen has learned about loss—she knows what she can and can’t live without.

And moments like these strip away any pretense, any lies, and all that is left is a horrible kind of honesty.

“We have to run,” she says simply.

“Karen.” He takes half a step toward her, hand extended. “No. You—you’re good here, in New York. You do good work, you have a job, friends, a life. Goddammit. I told you years ago, back in the hospital. I knew it—you’d give everything up for me and I shouldn’t—fuck. I shouldn’t have come back. Every time I try to live like a normal person, I hurt people. Good people. I was selfish. Should’ve let you have a goddamn life instead of—” His voice breaks and he looks on the verge of doing something reckless.

She takes his wrist, nails digging in. It must hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. “This—this is a life. We’ve had one and we’ve made one. And I don’t regret any of it for a second.”

“You could’ve been with someone else, could’ve had a real family—”

“I didn’t want _anyone_ ,” she says. “I wanted you. God, Frank. When are you going to realize I walked into this eyes open. I knew who were, and I knew what could happen. You didn’t trick me into anything, and it’s bullshit if you think you’re the only one responsible for the crap in our lives. Poindexter came after me; Fisk came after me—and I don’t see you complaining about that.”

“Why would I—”

“Exactly. You were willing to take them both on,” she says, still holding onto his wrist. “You’d do anything to keep me safe—I know that. Why is it so hard for you to believe I’d do the same?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. As if he has never thought about it in quite those terms.

“If I’d gotten pregnant under other circumstances, if this had been a one night stand or if I’d been dating someone else, I’m not sure I would have kept it,” she says. “I love my career and my life and—and I’m honestly not sure what kind of parent I’ll make. But this is _ours_ , Frank.” She presses his hand against her stomach. “She’s not growing up without a father. You got that?”

His eyes are red-rimmed. It takes a few tries for him to answer. “She?”

Shit. She didn’t even realize that she’d let it slip. “Yeah,” she says, softly. “The doctor told me this morning, when they checked me out at the hospital. She didn’t realize that it was supposed to be a surprise.”

He leans into her, and she wraps her arms around him, holding on tight. His face presses into her shoulder, as if he cannot bear to be anywhere else. A shudder rolls through him. “I love you,” she says quietly. “You self-sacrificing asshole.”

His thumb moves across her belly, stroking in small circles. “Guess I deserve that.” He pulls back, and there are tears on his face. He looks raw and haunted, but there’s a hint of softness around his eyes. His expression breaks her heart—that tentative bit of hope shining through. “Little girl, huh?”

“She’s probably going to be a menace,” says Karen. “With us as parents. She’ll be stubborn as hell.”

He smiles. “Sounds about right.” His smile drops away, and all that’s left is determined weariness. “We’ll figure this out.”

She holds on tighter. With both hands. “Yeah, we will.”


	11. Plotting

They don’t stay at the church that night.

As grateful as he is to Curtis for giving them a place to hide for a few hours, Frank knows it isn’t safe. The first place Mahoney will check is Curtis’s apartment. The church will probably follow soon afterward. So Frank and Karen drive into the city. Neither speaks, both of them leaving the other to their own thoughts. Frank goes over his last conversation with Curt.

_Where do you want me?_ asked Curtis quietly, once Karen went into the bathroom.

_I have to find Poindexter._ Frank crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. _I looked at his hospital notes._ _There were a few bits about his mental health, taken from a previous psychologist._

_What did they say?_

_That he’s bugfuck crazy._

Curtis laughed quietly. _And that helps us how?_

Frank laid it out. _He spent years hiding that from the FBI. From the army. Guys like him, he managed it because other people gave him orders. Everything was laid out in a handbook and all he had to do was follow it._

_Makes sense_ , Curtis admitted. _He needed a routine_.

_He probably still does_. Frank felt his mouth curve into a knife’s edge smile. _We just have to figure out places he felt comfortable. Places he might go. And then…_

_Then we end this son of a bitch_ , Curtis said, nodding. _All right. So how do we do this?_

_He mentioned someone. Julie—don’t know her last name. I think he tried to imitate her to make himself look normal. He may have stopped, but…_

Curtis nodded. _I’ll find out where she lived, where she went._

_Thanks_ , _Curt._

As for where they go, Frank rents one of those overpriced houses under a false name using a bank account David Lieberman put together, and then drives across town. Karen sits with her elbow against the passenger side window, fingers gently pressed to her mouth. He catches sight of her reflected in the glass—hair uncombed, cheeks a little too sharp and pale. All of this stress, this constant fear, it isn’t good for her. Or their—

_Daughter._ His mind conjures the word. Putting a name to something has a kind of power, a way of making it more tangible.

They’re going to have a daughter.

He hasn’t quite allowed himself to really think about it until now. He thought about the kid only in the abstract: a black and white blob that somehow got nicknamed after an overpriced vegetable. But now, now that he knows… all he can picture is a little girl. His little girl.

He remembers the last time they were headed for a safe house, after Fisk threatened Karen. He remembers dropping to his knees, touching his forehead to Karen’s still-flat stomach and murmuring a promise.

_Gonna make sure you grow up safe._

He failed Lisa; he won’t fail this one.

There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do. If it means he has to turn himself into Mahoney, he’ll do it without hesitation. But Karen has made it pretty clear how she felt about that option. She would rather run than see him in prison.

He hates this—seeing her in this position. Forced to choose between her life and him.

But she’s right about one thing: she knew what she was getting into. She knew what he was, what he had done and could do again. And she’ll stand beside him, no matter who comes after them. She’s stubborn and brave as hell, and he won’t lose her to this.

The rented house is in the suburbs of Great Neck Gardens and it’s far larger than either of them is used to. Karen wanders through the hallways, eyeing the white-washed walls and framed art prints, while Frank double checks the doors and windows, closing the blinds and making sure they’re secure. It’s a nice house—two stories, with three bedrooms and a well-sized porch in the backyard. He can imagine having barbecues on that porch, bringing friends over, sitting in that living room. It’s the kind of house that looks like a family should be living in it.

As if her own thoughts have gone in the same direction, Karen rests a hand on her stomach as she gazes around the kitchen. Silently, Frank goes to the cupboard and finds a glass. He fills it with tap water and hands it to Karen silently. She gives him a slightly irritated look, but she drinks all of it.

The master bedroom is upstairs. Frank draws the curtains, listening to the sounds of Karen brushing her teeth. It’s all feels strangely normal and domestic, even as he reloads his SIG Sauer and leaves it on the bedside table. When Karen walks out of the bathroom, she wears only a t-shirt and panties; they don’t really have pajamas. Her legs are lovely in the dim light—leanly muscled. She catches him looking and gives him an amused glance. He has changed into boxers and little else; there’s no point trying to sleep in jeans, not when it’s warm out. He sits on the edge of the bed, and she comes to stand beside him. She touches his shoulder, trails down his chest. It’s only then he notices the forming bruises.

“Poindexter got in a few lucky hits,” he says. “Nothing serious.”

She frowns, and he can see the concern written plainly across her face.

“Come here,” he says, and draws her down. He kisses her—a brief kiss, meant to be reassurance and affection—but then her hold tightens on him and she returns the kiss with fervor. He feels her whisper his name against his lips, and then they’re both on the bed, legs tangled and breath coming fast. All of the fraught emotion of the day seems to well up between them, needing release of some kind.

“Frank,” she says, turning his name into a plea, and he could never deny her. He kisses her neck, reaching down to pull up the hem of her shirt. She runs her fingers down his back, across muscle and old scars.

_I love you._ He tries to convey it in every touch. _So damn much._

He knows she understands.

* * *

Murdock shows up around eleven in the morning with groceries.

He left his phone at the office and he took a subway, then walked ten blocks. And cut through several backyards. All at Frank’s request, of course.

“It’s not paranoia if people are after you,” Frank says, unrepentant. He scrambles eggs while Karen sits at the bar counter. She looks better after a full night’s sleep and a long shower. Her damp hair is pulled into a bun, and she leans over Poindexter’s files, reading through the notes. She has a small cup of coffee in front of her, mixed liberally with milk. It’s a small indulgence and one he can’t fault her for. After the last few days, a little caffeine is the last of their worries.

Frank thoroughly cooks the eggs—better to overcook than risk salmonella. He divides the eggs three ways, then adds bacon and toast, placing the first plate in front of Karen. She regards the food with a slight press of her lips. Not hungry, he knows she’s going to say—but she hasn’t eaten in far too long. He’s watched such lapses happen in the past, back when they were both working long hours and she would forgo meals for her laptop. But now, there’s more at stake.

“Eat something,” says Frank quietly. “Please.”

“He’s right,” says Murdock. “Your blood sugar’s low.”

Karen gives Murdock a sharp look. “Seriously? You know that?”

Matt smiles. “It’s how I always know when Foggy’s about to get cranky.”

Karen makes an irritated sound and takes a bite of toast. She chews for a moment, then takes another bite.

“Any more news?” says Frank, putting a plate in front of Murdock.

Murdock nods his thanks. “Not really. The cops are still out in force—and while no one’s saying it, they’ll shoot on sight if they see you. Mahoney’s been hounding his people about bringing Karen in gently because of her… situation.”

Karen groans. “Of course he told everyone.”

“If it keeps them from opening fire on you, I’ll put up a goddamn billboard,” says Frank, sipping at his coffee.

She throws a piece of crust at him. He pops it into his mouth.

“What did you two find out?” says Murdock. “With Poindexter’s files?”

At this, Karen and Frank exchange a look. “It’s kind of… out there,” says Karen.

Murdock huffs. “I’ve seen people raised from the dead. Bones of creatures beneath New York City that shouldn’t exist. Bulletproof men and women that can lift cars one-handed. Hit me.”

Karen eats a small bite of eggs, swallows, then says, “A Japanese doctor used a unique alloy of smart steel called cogmium to reinforce Poindexter’s entire skeleton so he’s basically invincible.”

Murdock blinks. “Well, that explains why he didn’t react when I slammed him in the head with a fire extinguisher.”

Frank snorts, impressed. “Shit, Red.”

“He was throwing knives in the kid’s ward,” Murdock says, sounding more exhausted than angry. He looks as though he didn’t sleep at all. “I barely managed to stop him from killing anyone.”

“The surgery was experimental,” says Karen. “According to the doctor’s notes, Poindexter is the first to survive it. Apparently the procedure can’t be done under anesthesia, so…”

“Poindexter was awake for all of it?” says Murdock, frowning. “I can’t even imagine.” He takes a moment to eat eggs. “Why’d they do it? The doctors, I mean. Why’d they perform a surgery with almost no chance of working?”

“No idea,” says Karen. “The notes weren’t that detailed.”

“It’s always the same reason,” says Frank. “Because they needed a weapon.” For a moment, he smells damp cement and blood, his hands slick and sticky with it. It isn’t even one specific memory—it’s several jumbled together: prison, Kandahar, even Bill’s compound. Then Karen’s fingers wrap around his wrist, thumb stroking back and forth—pulling him back to the well-lit kitchen and the scent of cooked bacon. He forces a few deep breaths.

When he meets Karen’s eyes, he sees concern reflected in them. She knows him well enough to tell when he’s someplace else.

“So someone decided to make Poindexter even more dangerous,” says Murdock, “because they wanted him to fight for them.”

“Makes sense,” says Frank. “What’s been going on the last few years—it’s a new arms race. And it isn’t nuclear or chemical, it’s people with abilities. I’ve read articles about sketchy experimentation, people trying to duplicate the serum used on Captain America, trying to scavenge the tech from the attack and use it to build new armors, even looking into old myths for new sources of power.” He glances at the x-rays. “Everyone’s trying to get a leg up on everyone else.”

“I’m going to assume,” says Murdock, “that whoever did the surgery hasn’t been seen since it?”

Karen shrugs. “No idea, but probably. Poindexter doesn’t seem like the type to just happily become a tool in someone’s arsenal. I mean—it didn’t end well last time.”

Murdock goes still. “Fisk.”

“Yeah, I heard he was in that fight,” says Frank. He pours himself another cup of coffee.

“No,” says Murdock. “I mean—Vanessa Fisk. Do you think he’s hurt her?”

The kitchen goes quiet for a moment.

“No,” says Karen. “We’d hear about it. I mean, I’ve only been away from work for…” She seems to count backwards, then says, “It can’t have only been three days.”

Frank knows how she feels; it seems like an eternity has passed since he stepped into their apartment and saw Poindexter standing over Karen.

“The Bulletin would’ve heard if something happened to Vanessa,” says Karen. “I would have heard something. And the last three days—Poindexter has been pretty fixated on us. I don’t think he would’ve had time to sneak in a second assassination attempt.”

“Is she still in New York?” asks Frank.

Karen nods. “The FBI hasn’t let her leave. She isn’t being charged, but she’s still under suspicion. They took her passport, told her to stick around. If all of the stuff surrounding Fisk’s death blows over, she’ll probably be allowed to leave. As far as my sources can tell, she hasn’t continued on as Mrs. Criminal Empire.”

“She hasn’t,” says Murdock, with confidence. “Mostly, she’s been laying low. Avoiding the gangs that Fisk pissed off. She still has enough money for decent security, though, so I don’t think Poindexter would have an easy time getting to her. Still—it’s something to consider. We’re not his only targets.”

Karen eats another bite of bacon, then chews slowly. “I think I have to talk to Vanessa Fisk.”

Frank fumbles his empty cup and barely manages to catch it on the way down. “What?”

“The enemy of our enemy,” says Karen. “Poindexter wants her just as dead.”

He gives her a flat stare. “You want to speak to the wife of a man who tried to have you assassinated because of a goddamn Sun Tzu quote?”

“I think,” Karen says, “we’re about to be heart of a police hunt. I think that we have a professional, slightly insane killer who wants me dead. I think we don’t have a lot of options left.” She glances at Murdock. “She could have information on Poindexter. He used to work for them—she could know where he goes, where he might have holed up.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” admits Murdock. “I’ll do it.”

“She’ll never talk to you,” Karen says. “You’re Daredevil. Trust me, if her security sees you coming, you’ll never get near her. But… if Karen Page wants to talk to her…”

“Why would she want to talk to you?” asks Frank.

Karen puts her fork down, gazes at her half-eaten plate of food.

His stomach drops; he knows Karen—he knows where her mind goes, how she thinks.

He knows what she’s thinking now and he wishes to God that he didn’t.

“No,” he says at once.

Karen meets his eyes. Her face is pale but determined. “It’s the only way she’ll talk to me. I’ll do it in public, some place she can’t just kill me.”

“What?” says Murdock, bewildered. “Karen—”

“It’s too risky,” says Frank. “Let Murdock do it. Or me. But—”

“It won’t work,” says Karen. “She won’t talk to either of you—she doesn’t know you, Frank, and the last time she saw Daredevil, it was when Matt was pounding her husband’s face into a pulp.”

Murdock’s bewilderment shades into irritation. “What are you two talking about?”

“I’ll call Vanessa Fisk,” says Karen. “And I’ll tell her I know who killed her husband. I’ll trade that information for anything she knows about Poindexter.”

“Tell her I did it,” says Frank. He steps closer, gaze intent on Karen’s. She doesn’t look away. “For fuck’s sake, Karen. I would have done it—I wanted to do it. Just tell her I did, and—”

“And when she sends what’s left of Fisk’s criminal empire after you?” asks Murdock.

“We’ll deal with that later,” says Frank.

It might not matter. Once they kill Poindexter, they’ll run. And if the do it well enough, they may never have to deal with Fisk’s widow.

Karen turns to Murdock. “Matt, you still know her security guy’s number?”

“Yeah.” Murdock nods. “I do.”

“Then we’ll set up a meeting.”

* * *

That afternoon, Frank parks in a lot across from a small restaurant.

It is a mob-owned cafe. A well known one—which is exactly why Karen picks it. No police officer will be able to get in here without at least three men blocking his path, demanding a warrant.

Frank glares at the window planters and the faux wrought-iron tables. “You want to meet the wife of the man who wanted to kill you in a Gnucci joint, where I can’t follow you inside.”

“It’s less like want and more like need,” Karen says softly. “And besides, you agreed to this.”

Frank glowers at the building.

“Look,” Karen says. “Weapons are checked at the door. People are searched. The Gnuccis don’t tolerate fights on their properties and cops can’t get in. It’s as safe a place as we’re going to find. And besides, you’re going to be about five seconds away, so if I call you or a shoot-out happens, you’ll be right there. Matt will hear anything go wrong.”

Frank forces his jaw not to clench. “Anything happens,” he says. “Anything at all—you get out of there. None of that intrepid reporter bullshit. You run.”

“I will,” she says. She leans across the car, kisses him on the cheek. “Half an hour at most, okay?”

He nods tightly.

Karen gets out of the car, straightens her dress, and then strides across the street to the cafe.

Frank watches until she’s out of sight, then glances in the rearview mirror. Murdock sits in the car’s backseat, ear slightly cocked toward the cafe.

“You hear anything?” asks Frank.

“They’re searching her purse,” Murdock murmurs. “Giving her a ticket for her gun so she can pick it up when she leaves—sounds like it’s standard procedure. Vanessa is already there—I can smell her perfume from where she touched the front door.”

Frank shakes his head. He would never admit such a thing, but Murdock’s skills are impressive.

“Anything else?” he says.

Murdock considers. “The baby’s heartbeat sounds normal.”

“You hear a lot of those?” asks Frank, curious despite himself.

Murdock nods. “Lot of people in New York. I’ve heard pretty much everything there is to hear—including pregnant people. Or people trying to get pregnant. Or sometimes even the birth itself, if I’m in a hospital.” Murdock winces.

“I gotta say, I don’t envy that talent.” Frank taps his fingers along the car door, still glancing at the cafe. He hates this—the waiting and the uncertainty.

There is silence in the car for a few minutes, then Murdock says, “You love her, don’t you?”

Frank scoffs. “What kinda bullshit question is that?”

“She loves you,” says Murdock. “She has for a long time. I didn’t realize it until she came out of the hospital barefoot and smelling like you. People—people are emotionally affected… I can tell. It isn’t just in the heartbeat or the hormones, although that can be a give away. It’s something in the voice. A hitch, a hesitation. Like the world stutters out for a moment, and a person is just trying to find their balance again.”

Frank remembers that day at the hospital—drugged with painkillers and certain he crossed the one line he never would.

_You’re not the monster; you never were._

“I tried to keep her away from me,” Frank says. “I didn’t want her getting hurt.”

And he managed it—for a while.

“I know,” Murdock says. “I did, too. We had a… conversation after you moved in with her.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. Karen never told him about that.

“I told her I was worried about her,” Murdock says, a little blandly. As if just trying to get the words out there. “That your crimes would probably catch up to you and I didn’t want to see her caught up in them.”

Frank snorts out a laugh. “Bet she took that well.”

Murdock almost smiles; his mouth twitches and he covers his mouth with one hand. “She proceeded to remind me that the woman I fell in love with was an assassin who killed for fun, once tried to destroy all of New York, and despite all of it, I still stayed with her in a collapsing building so she wouldn’t die alone.”

Frank blinks. He never did hear the particulars of Murdock’s brush with death. “Well… shit.”

“After that, I didn’t really have much of a leg to stand on,” Murdock says dryly. He sobers a little. “Love isn’t logical. It just… is. And you do love her. Which is why you’re going to have a choice to make.”

Frank exhales sharply. He should have known this was coming—the moralistic speech. “You think I should turn myself in.”

“Of course I do,” Murdock says. “I’ll be your attorney. I’ll negotiate a deal. Karen stays out of prison, goes back to work, lives her life.”

“Becomes a single parent?”

Murdock shrugs. “My dad managed pretty well. There are worse things.”

He sounds so damned earnest that Frank can’t even snap at him. Because here’s the thing—he does care about Karen, and Frank can’t hate him, if only because of that. “You say all this like I didn’t already offer it to her.”

Surprise flashes across Murdock’s face.

“Yeah, we talked,” Frank says. “But she’d rather run.”

“Of course she would,” Murdock says. His mouth purses in disapproval. “Karen is—many things. Impulsive, protective, and sometimes short-sighted. She doesn’t want to see you get hurt. But this isn’t her decision to make, it’s yours.”

At that, Frank shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Murdock. If I went to the cops, turned myself in, that’d be me declaring I know what Karen wants better than she does. It’d be a shitty move on my part.”

“This will cost her everything,” says Murdock quietly.

Anger flares hot in Frank’s chest. He tries to bite it back, but his words come out sharp. “I know that. And you don’t think it eats away at me? But I’m not going over her head. If I go to prison, it’ll be because we decide it’s for the best—for her, for our kid. I’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant they’d both be safe. But I’m not forcing it on her. I won’t do that.”

Murdock’s brows draw tight, then he gives a small shake of his head. Almost as if he’s disappointed. He would go over Karen’s head, Frank knows. That’s probably why it would’ve never worked out between the two of them; Murdock, for all that he’s a good man, hasn’t quite grasped the concept of not controlling everything yet. Maybe someday—maybe he’ll find someone other than—

“An assassin, huh?” Frank says.

“It was college,” says Murdock, as if that’s a normal thing college guys do.

Frank laughs. And together, the two of them wait for Karen to reemerge.


	12. Succumbing

The cafe doesn’t look like it’s owned by mobsters.

It’s designed to appear like some quaint little place owned by a grandmother or perhaps a nice family, but Karen knows better. Anyone who works the crime beat would. It’s a place for money to be laundered, for crooks to meet in public without being arrested, for overpriced coffee and pastries to be eaten by those who are either dangerous or foolish enough to come here.

Karen walks up to the podium beside the front door.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m meeting someone.”

The host is a clean-cut young woman with gorgeous dark hair and polished nails. “The name?”

“Vanessa Fisk.”

The host doesn’t so much as blink. “Right this way.” She opens the door and gestures Karen inside. Karen slides one last look over her shoulder, then steps through. The air conditioning hits her and she shivers, hoping no one will mistake it for nerves. There is a man standing inside. The man has rather thick forearms and a face that looks like it’s taken a few hits. Even so, the smile he gives Karen is polite. “I’ll need to search your bag, Miss.”

Karen hands over her purse. He opens it, glances around, then removes her handgun.

Of course she took it with her. It was expected.

The enforcer—because he is an enforcer, no matter how much this man tries to pretend otherwise—writes up a note, with the pistol’s make, then hands it to Karen. “You can claim this on the way out. Have a pleasant meal.”

Karen nods and follows the host farther inside.

The cafe is illuminated with skylights and green with potted succulents. It is a beautiful space, with exposed brick walls and the scent of expensive coffee wafting through the air. The host leads her to a small, circular table.

Vanessa Fisk is a lovely woman—poised and sleek as a statue. She gives Karen a once-over.

Karen wears a dress that is just loose enough to zip up the side and a buttoned cardigan. It isn’t the most stylish thing she’s ever worn but she has other concerns. Karen takes a breath, then says, “Thanks for meeting me.”

Vanessa nods. “Well, you did make a rather compelling argument for us to meet.”

Karen sits. She unbuttons her cardigan and drapes it over her lap. It gives her something to do with her hands.

The server stops by to refill Vanessa’s cup of coffee and to ask for Karen’s order. “Mint tea,” she says, trying not to look enviously at the coffee menu. “Thank you.”

Vanessa delicately stirs a bit of cream into her coffee, then says, “Why am I here?”

“Because while you might know former Special Agent Poindexter is back in town,” says Karen. “What you don’t know is that someone used an experimental surgery to augment his spine with steel, and he’s on a rampage to take revenge on those who he thinks has wronged him.”

To her credit, Vanessa doesn’t blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Karen says. “Considering what I heard about the fight in the hotel, you probably make that list. I was hoping we could share information with one another.”

A delicate noise emerges from Vanessa’s throat—close to a scoff. “You mean, you wish to use my desire to find out who killed my husband in order to dig into Agent Poindexter’s past.”

Karen winces. When said aloud like that, it does make her sound rather heartless. “Pretty much.”

Vanessa wraps her fingers around her coffee cup, as if she needs the warmth. It takes a while for her to speak, and when she does, her voice is very soft. “Is it true? Do you know who killed Wilson?”

Karen takes a breath to steady herself. “Yes.”

“Then tell me,” says Vanessa, “and I will give you every file I have on Poindexter. I can have my assistant email them to any address you like.”

Karen writes down an anonymous email that she sometimes uses for sources onto a napkin, and slides it across the table. Vanessa adds “send all files on Poindexter to this email,” then gives it to a server with instructions to deliver it to a car out back.

“My end of the bargain is held up,” Vanessa says. “Now, Ms. Page. If you would be so kind. Who killed my husband?”

Karen swallows.

She knows what Frank wants her to say—to name him. He would have pulled the trigger, if his hands had not been bound. And there is probably no small part of him that wishes he had been the one to do so—because she knows that he still blames himself for getting captured, for endangering her. She doesn’t regret going after him, not for a heartbeat. That’s what you do for family.

But Karen has hidden her own crimes before. She knows the bitter taste of those untruths, and she cannot utter them again.

“I did,” she says simply.

It feels like pulling the pin on a grenade; Karen braces herself for the explosion, for the chaos, for the outburst. Vanessa Fisk could throw herself across the table, snarl at one of the servers to throw Karen out, or maybe even call her own security inside.

But she does none of those things.

Vanessa’s eyes drop to the table and she doesn’t answer right away. She seems to consider her words with care, mulling over every syllable. “Tell me why.”

“Why?” says Karen, confused.

“Why did you kill him?” Vanessa speaks quietly, so their words will not be overheard. “And why tell me?”

Karen has to sort through her own thoughts. Again, the truth. “Because he put me into a situation where my only choices were to kill him or to lose someone I loved—and most likely die myself.”

“Self defense,” says Vanessa. “That is what you are calling it.”

“Yes.”

Vanessa sips at her coffee. She dabs at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin. Her lipstick remains miraculously intact. “You did not call the cops because the person Wilson took was Frank Castle.”

Karen goes still. She hopes her face isn’t as pale and frozen as she thinks it is.

“Come now,” says Vanessa, a little chiding. “I watch the news.”

Karen is never going to get use to the whole world knowing that she’s with Frank.

“Yes,” she says. No point in denying it.

“Why are you telling me this?” says Vanessa. Her voice is as level and cold as ice upon a river. Karen fears what happens when that ice cracks.

“Because right now, the danger that Agent Poindexter presents is more important than either of us,” says Karen. “And because—I thought you should know how your husband died.” She looks down at her cup of mint tea. “I’d want to know, if it was me.”

Vanessa nods. “Did you want Wilson dead?”

“Sometimes,” says Karen. “Your husband killed a lot of people.”

“So has yours.”

There are many ways that Karen could answer that—to say that Frank isn’t her husband, that all of the people Frank has killed were bad men, that Fisk and Frank are nothing alike. But none of these statements will help her. 

“I didn’t want to kill him,” Karen says. “He backed me into a corner.”

Vanessa lets out a sigh. “He always did have a temper. He was smart about some things… but others—he would think with his fists instead of his head.”

Karen feels like she has to ask. “Did he ever…?”

Vanessa understands. “Hurt me? No. Wilson was always very gentle with me. And I loved him. Maybe that’s not something you can understand.” She rises from the table, leaving enough cash to pay for both of them. Karen stands, opens her mouth to say that’s not necessary, then Vanessa’s eyes narrow.

Karen realizes that without the cardigan, the curve of her stomach is more obvious.

“Ah,” says Vanessa, very quietly. “I see now.”

Karen draws her cardigan against her stomach, feeling unaccountably protective. “What?”

Vanessa’s smile is tight across her face—and Karen thinks she can see cracks spidering out from that icy calm facade. “We spoke—we were speaking of perhaps having a child. It wouldn’t be easy to manage, but it was something he wanted.”

Karen doesn’t know what to say.

“I—I’m sorry,” she says, a little helplessly.

Vanessa fixes her with a look. “Are you, Ms. Page?”

And to that, Karen has no answer.

* * *

Karen leaves the cafe, purse under her arm, and gun tucked inside of it.

She feels exposed the moment she leaves the building. The area is bustling with people—tourists, mostly. They pose for selfies and snap photos of the skyline. Frank is across the street, in the paid lot. He leans up against the car, a baseball cap tugged low across his eyes. Matt still sits in the backseat, and she wonders if Frank got out of the car because Matt started lecturing him. An amused smile breaks across her face at the thought.

“Hey, you,” she says, taking the last few steps at a jog.

“You got what we needed?” he asks quietly.

She nods. “Yeah, I think so. She emailed the files to me. We don’t have a computer, but…”

Matt rolls down the car window. “I’ll take a look at them,” he says, “if you give me your email password. I can do it at the office.”

“Sounds good,” she replies.

Matt frowns. “There’s a food truck just down the street. I could grab you something before we leave.”

“Why would you—”

“You only drank tea at the cafe,” he says. “And your stomach’s growling.”

She groans. “That will never not be creepy, Matt.”

“Trust me,” he replies, “I know. And sometimes I wish I could turn it off. When my neighbors start watching porn, particularly.”

Frank lets out a reluctant laugh. “Guess there’s some advantages to being boring and normal, then.”

Karen snorts. “Yeah, that’s you. Boring and normal.” She manages to keep a somewhat straight face.

“I’ll go get something for us to eat,” says Frank, tugging his baseball cap even lower. “You two stay out of trouble for five minutes, okay?”

Karen gets into the car. Then she locks the doors, just to be safe. “Did the two of you play nice?” she says, smiling a little.

Matt sighs. He has a hint of stubble along his jaw and he looks as though he didn’t sleep well. Probably working on her legal case, because he’s a good friend like that. Matt will work himself into the ground for a cause—or a person—he believes in. “As nice as ever.”

“That good, then?”

Matt exhales gently through his nose. “Frank is… Frank. I’ve tried to accept that. We respect one another, even if we’ll never be the best of friends.”

“Foggy would get jealous if you were.”

“True.” Matt fidgets with his folded cane. “You know I only want the best for you, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

She watches as Frank returns from the food truck, a bag in hand. He passes by a cluster of teenaged tourists, and one of the girls bumps into him. Her gaze lingers on him a little too long and Karen’s heartbeat quickens.

They’re too exposed here. Anyone could recognize Frank—or Karen. They should get off the street.

Frank gets behind the wheel and passes the paper bag to her. “It was one of those weird brunch trucks. Fried chicken and waffles—all right?”

She pulls out a piece of waffle. It steams between her fingertips and smells as if someone baked maple syrup into it. Her mouth waters and when she takes a bite, she closes her eyes in bliss. “I think the avocado approves.”

They drop Matt off near a subway, leaving him with the instructions for Karen’s email and a promise from him to call within the next few hours. Then, they drive back into the suburbs. Karen falls asleep, sedated by the drone of the engine and the food, only waking only when the garage door closes behind them. “Shit,” she says groggily. “Sorry. I think I dropped off while you were driving.”

Frank’s hand settles on hers, thumb moving back and forth across her knuckles. “Nothing to apologize for. You could continue this nap upstairs.”

“It’s almost embarrassing how good that sounds,” she admits. She touches her forehead. “How am I so exhausted? It’s only one in the afternoon.”

“I don’t know,” says Frank. She gets out of the car and he leads the way up the steps, out of the garage and into the house itself. “Being hunted by a nutjob, getting shot at, hanging out in mob cafes and—oh, right, growing a person inside of you. No idea at all why you’d be tired.”

She snorts. “Okay, when you put it like that…”

The house is lovely in the afternoon light—sunbeams snag on the window blinds, and Frank opens a few when he sees Karen looking. She stands at the kitchen sink for a moment, gazing out over the porch and garden. It looks… comfortable. Nice. And she feels entirely out of place here. Maybe someday she could fit into the kind of life this house might provide, but not now.

She goes up into the bedroom and changes out of her dress, into a far more comfortable blue sweater and loose jeans. She glances at herself in the mirror—she isn’t even close to glowing; she looks hungover. Frank peruses one of the bookshelves, eyeing a few of the titles. “See anything good?” she says, tugging her sweater into place.

“Mostly the kind of books that vacationers would read,” he murmurs.

“Guide books? Best of New York?”

“Yeah, and a lot of bestsellers.” Frank pulls one off the shelf. “Westerns, thrillers, the kinds of books people buy at airports and then forget somewhere. Which is probably how this collection is curated. Few kids books, too.”

Karen settles on the bed, sitting with her back propped against the headboard. Frank sits beside her, flipping through one of the books. It’s an old copy of Grimm’s Fairytales—the originals, not the cartoon versions. The illustrations are black and white and rather lovely. “These always creeped me out as a kid,” Karen admits, touching one of the pages. “Princes turning into bears and dead moms everywhere. A little too close to home for me.”

“You run into a lot of bear princes?” he says, but his smile is a little sad.

“Tons,” she replies. “You get a lot of them up north.”

She rolls onto her side, scooting down the bed until she can curl onto her side. She exhales, closing her eyes. Frank reaches for a throw blanket and tosses it over her. “Get some rest,” he says. “Murdock’ll probably need a few hours to dig through those files. Curt’s looking into things on his end—he’s got some connections into the army through group.” He turns a page. “We wait for intel, then we go after this bastard.”

She doesn’t ask what comes after that. She’s considered running before—back when Fisk was active, she would spend sleepless nights plotting out her escapes, ways out of the country, how to go unseen. Now, the circumstances may be different but the need to hide remains.

As if sensing her thoughts, Frank says quietly, “What’d you tell Fisk’s wife?”

Karen doesn’t sit up. She wraps her fingers in the woven knit of the throw, toying with the yarn. “The truth.”

“Dammit, Karen.” There’s no mistaking the anger in his voice. “I said you should—”

“I wasn’t going to lie to her about it,” Karen says. She doesn’t meet his ire with her own; honestly, she understands. His anger is one of worry, and she isn’t the only one dealing with the stress of the last few days. “I’ve done that before. I couldn’t… not again.” And perhaps she should have, but the untruths would have eaten away at her like acid. Better to speak painful truths and be done with it.

“If she decides to come after you,” Frank begins to say, but Karen cuts him off.

“It doesn’t matter. Not if we’re leaving.”

She can almost hear him grinding his teeth—and again, she understands. Their old lives are slipping away, bathwater through an open drain, and there’s nothing she can do to stem the flow.

Frank’s hand lightly strokes across her hair, down her back. His hand lingers along her spine, at the small of her back. He says, “Just—all right. I get that. You not wanting to lie again. But Karen, you’ve got to promise if this goes sideways, if Poindexter somehow gets the drop on me or Red, if Fisk’s widow decides to start throwing hitters at us, you get out. Take those papers and that money and stay safe.”

Karen glances up at him. His face is steady, but she can see the turmoil behind his eyes.

“I can’t lose my family again.” He says each of the words as if they hurt him. He has to pause, to swallow. “I’d rather—anything else. Anything. Just not that.”

“Hey.” She takes his hand and holds on tight. “You’re not losing us. Everything they’ve thrown at us—we’ve dodged it. We’ll get through this, too.”

He glances down at their interlaced fingers. “I’m going to call Curt. Make a cup of coffee or something. You should get some more rest.”

She nods. He needs some time to himself, to process, and she understands that.

She listens to his footsteps as he crosses the room, quietly shutting the bedroom door behind him. Karen closes her eyes, tries to slow her breathing. Frank is right—she does need the rest. They’re going to end this, to make things right—and then they’re going to run. Make a new life someplace far from here. It’ll be hard. But she knows they can do this. They’ve managed much more difficult things than starting again.

Her body relaxes, fingers slackening. She is on the verge of sleep when a chime rouses her.

Her phone. She reaches for it on instinct, snatching it off the bedside table. She glances at the front screen. It’s Frank. She snorts, then flips open the phone and says, “Too lazy to walk up the stairs?”

“Something like that,” says a voice that is not Frank’s. It’s lighter, smiling, and sends a bolt of cold down her spine.

“Poindexter,” she says.

“Dex, I told you to call me Dex. I think we’re past last names now.”

“Dex.” The name feels wrong in her mouth, short and staccato as a gunshot. “How did you get this number? How did you get that phone?” She glances around the bedroom. Frank is downstairs. If she can get down there silently, alert him—

“Ah, that is the question, isn’t it,” says Dex. “And please, don’t think about standing up. I’d hate to shoot Castle.”

Karen freezes.

“That’s right,” says Dex, and she can hear him smiling. “I like your sweater, by the way. Blue looks nice on you.”

Her blood rushes in her ears, so loud that for a moment she cannot hear anything else. She takes one shaky breath and then another.

“Took this phone from a pickpocket I paid off,” says Dex. “Actually, I threatened her. It’s fine, though, she did get paid.”

Karen remembers the teenage girl bumping into Frank. At the time, all Karen could think about was being sighted, but now, she realizes that Frank never checked his pockets.

That girl took his phone.

That girl took his phone and gave it to Poindexter—Poindexter, who followed them to that cafe and must have been watching the whole damn time.

A shudder has her teeth clacking together. She imagines Frank and Matt, sitting in that car, so vulnerable. And of herself, exposed on that street. All it would have taken was a moment, a single moment, and any one of them could be dead. But they’re not—which means Poindexter doesn’t _want_ them dead. Not yet.

“I followed you back here,” continues Dex. “Not too difficult. Now I’ve got a rifle trained on your boyfriend—looks different without the beard. Didn’t even recognize him as Frank Castle until the news blew up. Got a thing for dangerous men, Karen? Is that why you hung around Daredevil and now the Punisher?”

Anger flares up within her, so hot that her heart feels like it might simply burn up in her chest. She hates him. She hates these games, all of this running. She hates the bodies he leaves in his wake, the blood she’s scrubbed off her skin, her clothes. “So why are we talking?”

“Because,” says Dex. “Daredevil didn’t kill me. He took everything else, but he didn’t kill me.”

“Daredevil didn’t take anything from you. Fisk did that.”

“He led me to that goddamned freezer,” says Dex, a bit of emotion creeping into his voice. “He used me, I see that now. He wanted me to go after Fisk, and Fisk broke me.”

“Someone fixed you, though, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they made me better. Stronger.” Dex exhales. “They wanted me to work for them, for some criminal organization. I politely declined.”

Karen wonders when more corpses will turn up.

“So here’s the plan,” says Dex. “You are going to crawl out that bedroom window. There’s one of those—I don’t know what you call them. Garden ladder things. You’ll climb down it. You are going to walk two blocks south. There’s a blue Honda parked at the curb, unlocked. Get into the back seat. Then we’re going for a drive.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I put two rounds in Castle’s skull,” says Dex.

She believes him.

Karen clenches the phone in her hand. _Fuck. Fuck._ She can’t see a way out of this, a way to warn Frank without endangering him. All it will take is a fraction of a second for Dex to pull that trigger.

“And then what?” she says. “You going to kill me?”

“Nah,” says Dex. “See, I figured out that you’re not Daredevil’s north star. You never were. You’re Castle’s. Murdock’s got… something else. Faith or some bullshit like that. It’s why he keeps returning to that church.”

“So if I don’t matter to Matt, why are you taking me?”

“Because you’re still good bait,” says Dex simply. “So I think I’ll let you talk to Julie for a bit, maybe rig up a nice little kill zone for anyone who wants to pull you out, and then wait to see who shows up. I was originally going to lure in just Daredevil, but your boyfriend’s a pretty good shot. Wouldn’t mind a rematch.”

“He’s going to kill you,” she says.

He laughs. “You get out of that window now. Climb down. Do anything else—yell or deviate from the plan, and I’ll pull this trigger.”

The phone goes silent. Karen clicks it shut and shoves it back into her pocket.

“Shit,” she whispers.

If she moves to warn Frank, Dex will kill him. And her own fate will be sealed, too. There won’t be reason to keep her alive—not enough. Dex is right about one thing; she isn’t Matt’s north star. She never was. She and Matt have always been in separate orbits, never quite close enough at the right time to become anything more.

But Frank—

_I can’t lose my family again. I’d rather—anything else. Anything. Just not that._

There is no time. No time at all.

Frank will come up and find her gone. Vanished. Her gaze drags around the bedroom and lands on the book of fairytales on the bedside table.

Fairytales. She thinks of two children being led through a forest, dropping breadcrumbs behind them. She doesn’t have breadcrumbs or paper. But then again, aren’t those the newer versions of even more gruesome tales? She thinks of apples red as—

“Blood,” she whispers.

Karen goes to the window. There’s a metal latch—a little rusted.

It will have to do. When Karen opens the window, she catches her hand on the sharp edge and tears her skin across it as hard as she can. Pain flares up her arm, and a moment later, she sees blood well up. Good. As she pushes the window open, she rubs her arm along it, staining the white wash crimson. She pulls the window shut behind her, crawling out onto the roof.

She glances down—yes, there is a trellis. Flowering vines curve along its wooden slats, and Karen judges the angle to get her foot onto it. She moves a little slower than she normally might, but she hopes Dex will attribute it to her not wanting to fall.

Blood drips down her arm. Onto the roof, into the gutter.

She climbs down, hoping all the while that Frank will come upstairs, that he’ll notice something is wrong. Her phone jams up against her hip, still crammed in her pocket.

Her feet hit the lawn, and she crouches there for a moment, recovering her balance. Then she rises, and begins walking across the yard, toward the sidewalk. She can feel blood dripping down her arm, spattering the cement. The long sleeve of her sweater hides the injury itself well enough that she hopes Dex won’t notice the trail.

She walks south. The suburbs are sunny and cheerful and safe. All of this is supposed to be safe.

She knows better.

She sees the blue Honda at the curb, parked beneath a tree—an oak with thick foliage. Good. She hopes that Dex still has his gaze on the house, watching Frank. Keeping her body angled between her hand and the houses, Karen brings up her cheap burner phone and snaps two pictures in quick succession. One of the car, one of the license plate. Her fingers smear blood across the screen, but she manages to save both photos. Then she pretends to trip on the curb. She drops her phone.

The phone skitters under the Honda, out of sight. It’s the best she can do.

She can only hope that Dexter doesn’t see the blood, doesn’t notice the phone she stashed just out of sight. He’s used to being in control, to having power. Hopefully he won’t expect anything.

Karen slides into the backseat and pulls the door shut behind her. The windows are tinted, but she can still see the man walking toward her a few moments later.

The door is pulled open, and Dex glances down at her. “Sorry about this,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, and then pats her down. She can only be grateful it’s quick and professional—she’ll give him this, he doesn’t linger. Once he’s sure she isn’t armed, he nods at her bloodied hand. “What happened?”

_Please don’t look under the car. Please don’t look down._

“Cut myself on the trellis,” she says.

Dex looks as though he’s rather disappointed by her incompetence. “Sometimes I wonder how you, Nelson, and Murdock managed to bring us down. The three of you—you’re nothing. Nobodies. You shouldn’t have managed it.”

“Is Frank all right?” she says quietly. She didn’t hear a gunshot, but if it was suppressed, she’s not sure she would have.

“He was drinking coffee last time I looked,” says Dex. “Now, you stay nice and calm or else I’ll put a round in your knee, okay?”

Karen doesn’t answer, which Dex seems to take as agreement. He gets into the front seat.

As they pull away from the curb, Karen catches a glimpse of something gleaming on the pavement behind them.

A glimmer of sunlight on plastic.


	13. Waning

When Karen was in college, she took a self-defense class.

Most of it was pretty basic: how to break free of a hold, the best places to hit a man, and when to recognize that a situation had turned life-threatening. One of the things that was drilled into her again and again was never to allow a person to take her anywhere. To be taken to a second location was among the most dangerous positions a person could find themselves in. They were told how to find the emergency release of a trunk, how to break a car window.

Karen thinks of what that instructor would have thought of Karen calmly sitting in the backseat of a Honda, being driven toward the docks along the Hudson. It’s an industrial area, meant for shipping containers and Karen has been here before. It’s a prime area for smugglers, because security is still looser here than at a train station or airport. And bodies can be given over to the care of the river. Karen thinks of the granary that Fisk took Frank to—and wonders if Dex knows how similar he and his former employer actually are.

She wonders if Frank has found the phone yet. It’s been nearly half an hour—he has to have realized that she isn’t there. Unless he decided to let her nap for several hours.

Or maybe Dex lied—and he did take that shot. Keeping Karen quiet through cooperation is easier if she thinks Frank is still alive… and she knows Dex’s true aim is Daredevil. She and Frank are just speed bumps on the way to the destination.

She has never been so glad that Foggy got out of town.

Dex drives up to one of the larger warehouses, parking the car beside it. He nods at Karen, who steps out of the Honda. The warehouse looks clean and functional—not deserted like she would have expected. She counts back in her head and realizes it’s a weekend. No one’s working today, which is probably why Dex picked this place. He unlocks a door and gestures her inside, all gentlemanly courtesy. She allows a bit of steely anger to enter her face as she returns his glance.

He is going to die. Of that, she has no doubt. Either Frank is going to do it—or she will.

The docks look deserted—even if she screams, probably no one will hear her. Karen allows herself to be shepherded into the warehouse. It’s surprisingly clean and well-used, still in business. She glimpses a forklift and and rows of wooden pallets with boxes. This must be come kind of food distributor—she sees boxes of breakfast cereals and powdered creamers in one row. Dex walks to the back of the warehouse. He strides up to what appears to be a heavy metal door and pries it open.

It’s a freezer. A large, industrial freezer. She sees boxes of burger patties and other meats along one wall, stacked in rows of metal shelves. There are two doors—the one they came through, and a second, side door. And a long the free wall, stacked in a neat row are bodies. At least four or five of them, with plastic wrapping hastily tossed over them.

Karen’s stomach turns over.

“I found Julie in a place kind of like this,” says Dex, giving her a hard push at the small of her back. She stumbles on the slick floor, inhaling the frozen air.

“This is how things are going to work,” says Dex, conversational. He holds up a grenade and Karen goes utterly still. “I don’t need to explain what this does, right?”

Then he yanks the pin free. Karen catches her breath, wondering for a moment if he’s far gone enough to just kill them both. But Dex takes a thin bit of wire and slides it through the place where the pin should have gone. Then, keeping that lever tightly pressed in place, he fixes wire and grenade against the freezer’s door handle.

She sees the trap at once—if anyone pulls the latch, it’ll yank that wire free. And set the grenade off.

Dex grins. “This is the front door. Going to leave it unchained—all nice and welcoming.” Then he walks to the other door. “This one, I’m going to chain from the outside. Lots of chains. Make it a real pain to open. And I mean, if you’re freezing to death… time might be of the essence.”

“Why are you doing this?” Karen says quietly.

“I had some time to think about this all those months I spent recovering,” says Dex. He smiles at Karen, that skull-like smile. “So you see—”

She hits him. She doesn’t aim for the face or the knees—with his reinforced bones, she would be more likely to injure herself. She throws a hard punch into his throat, choking off his words. Then she scratches for one eye, raking her nails across his skin. The attack fast—and it would likely stun most men, but Dex isn’t most. He isn’t even normal. With a snarl of irritation, he catches her around the shoulders and throws her into the wall. The impact jolts through her and she stumbles, slips on the metal floor.

Dex’s forehead is bleeding, and his mouth is drawn tight with anger. His hand rests on one of the knives at his belt, fingering it with loving consideration. His thumb strokes along one edge. “You don’t need to be alive for this to work, you know,” he says. “I picked a freezer because Daredevil probably won’t be able to hear your heartbeat here.”

She forces herself to bite down on her reply. There is no real hope of fighting him here, now like this. “You sure about that?”

Dex frowns, then he steps back, reaching for the side door.

The door clicks shut, plunging the freezer into darkness.

For a moment, Karen is left in the dark—and she is utterly alone with her fear. Because she _is_ afraid. There is an animal part, deep at the back of every human brain, that still fears the things that lurk in unseen places. Karen stays utterly still for a few heartbeats, waiting to see if her eyes will adjust.

They don’t.

Shit.

Poindexter put her in a freezer, because this is how he found Julie. It’s one last ‘fuck you’ to Matt. If she knows Poindexter, he’ll probably set up the warehouse how he likes it, call Matt and give him the location. Matt’ll call Frank—if Frank hasn’t figured out that Karen is missing by now. They’ll team up, come here—maybe Dex will hint about where Karen is, and Frank will—

Frank will come for her, and she isn’t sure if he’ll open the unsecured door or not. She has heard what some people have said about him—that he’s all muscle, an attack dog. But she knows him better than that. Frank is smart; he reads more than she does, can play chess surprisingly well, and can dissect a battlefield with little more than a glance. If he sees the two doors, one secured and one not, he’ll probably know better. But Dex is also right that if time is imperative, Frank might let fear get the better of him.

And if they don’t find her in time, if she isn’t blown up by the grenade, she’s going to die from oxygen deprivation or hypothermia.

She is shivering already. Wearing little more than a loose sweater and jeans—she isn’t prepared for this.

She paces back and forth, arms tucked inside of her sweater. She lets her hair down, hoping to keep her neck a little warmer. She closes her eyes, tries to recall everything about the freezer before the lights went out. She remembers seeing a fan overhead. There is a row to her left—full of cardboard boxes. The bodies are to her right, stacked up against the wall.

Those bodies—

She doesn’t want to do this. The very idea makes her feel sick.

But this isn’t just for her. It isn’t merely her life at stake. If she doesn’t get free, it’ll cost her life, her child’s, Frank’s, and probably Matt’s. She is under no illusions that Matt won’t come, won’t be right beside Frank. She imagines Foggy on the other side of the country, learning he lost his best friends all in one day.

She walks carefully toward the wall, going by touch and memory. Finally, her fingertips meet the frozen wall, and her hand skims downward as she kneels.

She finds the first body—her hands crinkling across plastic.

She hates this. Hates every moment of it. But she forces herself to pull away the plastic, to touch the frozen clothing and reach into the first victim’s pockets. It must be a custodian, because the material is rough and industrial, and she only finds a phone with a dead battery. She moves onto the next body, which is also a man, but this one has nothing on him. The third—

The third man has a belt that feels oddly bulky. Karen runs her fingers across something metal, and her heartbeat quickens.

A flashlight. She yanks it free and clicks it on.

The dead man is a cop. Karen remembers Matt saying that Dex shot two of them, then stole a police car. This one must have been in the car, his corpse an unwilling passenger.

Karen kneels beside the cop, fumbling with her numb, clumsy fingers. She paws away the last of the plastic wrap, tries not to look at the man’s features. Ice crusts his uniform and face; his fingers are like stiff claws. Karen lifts one of his arms away from his belt, and looks down.

His gun is still there.

Dex must have dragged him in here without searching him. Why would he? Dex seems to have plenty of access to guns.

Karen lifts the gun from its holster. She checks it over. A Glock, with a full clip and a round in the chamber. It’s ice cold against her skin as she shoves it into the waistband of her jeans—which is a terrible idea, she knows, but there isn’t much choice. There is also what looks like a multitool on the man’s belt, and she takes that, too. It could prove useful.

She shines the flashlight around the freezer, trying to get her bearings.

The fan overhead keeps whirling, sending frigid air across her skin. Karen digs around on one of the shelves, finds a heavy box, and manages to tear some of the heavy cardboard free. Then she rises on tiptoe, crams the cardboard into the fan. There’s a flapping noise, the _whump whump whump_ of the machinery trying to keep going, but something jams and it trembles like a bird snagged in a net. The fan stops whirling and cold air ceases circulating through the freezer.

It isn’t much, but it’s something.

She draws her arms close around herself. Then she goes to the grenade and looks it over.

The wire is thin enough to cut. She could probably do it with that multitool. But the moment she does, the lever will snap free and she’ll have… four seconds? Three? She doesn’t know how long it takes a grenade to go off. She doesn’t want to imagine what the interior of the freezer would look like, what Frank and Matt would arrive to find.

She considers shooting through the other door, but she has a limited supply of ammo, and hitting that chain would be a matter of luck. She isn’t even sure these bullets could pierce the freezer walls.

She rocks back on her heels, thinking through her options.

She can’t really feel her face or her hands anymore, and her breath fogs the air. It’s probably been at least an hour or two since she was taken. She closes her eyes, tries to think of something warm.

She thinks of her bed, back home. It was the one luxurious thing about their apartment—that and the coffeemaker. There were so many mornings spent in that bed, beneath the covers when the sun had not quite yet risen, with the world quiet and still. It was a toss-up who would wake first, her or Frank. Sometimes she would just watch him—his face relaxed in sleep, half a decade of worry wiped from his face. They didn’t bring any work into that bed: no laptops, no phones, no guns. It was the one place that was simply theirs.

She misses it. She misses the familiarity and the warmth of home—and _him_.

“All right,” she whispers. “All right.”

She paces again, trying to rub some warmth back into her hands. She needs more time to figure this out. But she’s starting to shake badly, and she doesn’t want to think what hypothermia could do to the avocado. “We can do this,” she says quietly. “Partners in crime, right?” She rubs a hand across her stomach. “Let’s go find your dad.”

This is going to be risky as fuck, but there isn’t a lot of choice. Karen checks the gun at her waistband, then tucks the flashlight between her teeth. She kneels by the grenade, takes several painfully cold breaths, then wraps her hand around the lever. She holds it as tight as she can, keeping it pressed in place, as she uses her other hand to press one sharp edge of the multitool against the wire.

 _One,_ she thinks, _two_ —

Then she rips the wire free, before she can lose her nerve.

The wire falls away, and Karen feels the slight give in the lever—the pressure against her palm. But she grips it hard, keeping that lever in place. The grenade won’t go off until it’s released—or so that’s how things are supposed to work. Explosives can go wrong; she knows that. Dropping the multitool, she uses her free hand to pull the freezer door open.

It comes free easily, a wave of freezing mist accompanying her as she steps outside. She ducks low, keeping her back to the wall as she pulls the door shut behind her. The warehouse is just as she remembers it: high rows of wooden pallets, machinery, and the smell of gasoline. There are several propane tanks along the wall, and she makes a mental note not to drop the grenade there, if she has to drop it. The whole building will probably go up.

She has to get out. Dex probably won’t expect her to get free; all she needs is to find a side door and slip out. Maybe throw the grenade as hard as she can at his car, then run.

She moves as quietly as she can, listening hard. Dex is likely setting up his trap—maybe rigging up a sniping position in the rafters or cheerfully arranging more bodies in a semi-circle, or whatever it is that deranged serial killers do.

If they run into one another, at least she’s armed. The cold metal of the gun is still at the small of her back.

Her arm is cramping with the strain but she ignores the discomfort. She isn’t sure how hard she needs to grip the lever to keep it in place, but her fingers are wrapped so tightly around it that her knuckles are white. It feels like holding onto… well, it feels like holding onto a grenade—she isn’t sure there is a real comparison. She’s shaky and her heart is pounding, and every sense is sharp. She hears something near the front doors and she goes still, afraid of drawing attention.

She just has to get to the door.

She can get to the door.

She looks down at the grenade. Get to the door—and possibly never relax this hand ever again.

She hears light footsteps and goes still. Shit. Shit. There’s a clatter of machinery—and she isn’t sure what direction it comes from. Glancing from side to side, she presses herself up against one of the wooden pallets, trying to hide herself from view.

Please let him just walk by. Please let him not see her.

The footsteps move on.

Karen releases a shaky breath and turns—running smack into the chest of—

She nearly says his name. It catches on her tongue, even as he presses a finger to his lips, silencing her.

Frank.

He’s there—he’s right there, and she thinks for a moment she’s conjured him out of pure want. Her free hand lands on his chest and he’s solid beneath her touch. She looks at him, and an entire silent conversation passes between them in a glance and a few touches.

His fingers against her neck, skimming up to her hair. His eyes are soft but there’s an edge of tightness to his jaw and mouth. _You all right?_

She nods. His shoulders are a rigid line, his hair rumpled with sweat, and she counts at least three guns at his belt. He’s armored up, but in a plain vest rather than the skull-painted one. He came as Frank Castle, not the Punisher.

Karen raises her arm, the grenade still fisted in her hand.

His eyes widen, and she watches realization and fear flash across his expression. He takes in the situation at a glance, then holds out his own hands. _Give it to me._ She can hear the words as easily as if he spoke them aloud. Her fingers tighten on the grenade, half out of concern and half because she fears releasing it.

He wraps his hand around hers. His thumb slots in between her fingers, pressing the lever tight before he gently pries her fingers from it. It’s done carefully, the transfer of the explosive from her hand to his. Her fingers ache from the cold and the pressure. She raises both eyebrows in a silent question. _You have the grenade—now what?_

He shrugs.

She widens her eyes. _I thought you had a plan_ , she tries to say, with a twist of her mouth.

He gives her a very even look, and she can read his answer well enough. _The plan was to get the grenade off you._

She almost wants to laugh; she feels giddy with mingled relief and fear. They made it this far, but they’re still not safe. Not yet.

He glances over her, mouth tightening, and then, one-handed, he pulls off his vest. She tilts her head in silent disapproval, but he pretends not to see it—or maybe he just doesn’t care. He holds out the vest, and his mouth is set in a hard line. _Put it on._

She does. If only because she really, really doesn’t want him both holding that grenade and trying to put a bulletproof vest on her at the same time. Knowing him, he might try it.

The vest is a heavy weight, awkward around her shoulders. He nods, satisfied.

 _Fine_ , she thinks, and wonders if he can read the irritated acceptance in her face.

He must, because he wraps his free arm around her and pulls her tight against him. He’s so warm it hurts but she clings to him, so desperately glad to see him all right. She couldn’t be sure Poindexter didn’t take that shot, not until now. She feels his mouth against her hair, then at her temple. _I love you._ That needs no translation. Her fingers tighten on him. _You, too._

He gestures around the stacks of pallets, then flattens his hand, directs it toward the floor.

 _Stay low._ She can almost hear him say it.

She nods again.

They move in an awkward shuffle and crouch, keeping near the wall. Frank glances down every row of pallets before gesturing her ahead. The grenade remains tight in his hand and she has to wonder what they’re going to do with that; they can’t just keep it forever. Frank keeps them moving toward the east side of the warehouse, toward the dock. They’re perhaps halfway there when a loud, amused voice says, “You have exactly two seconds to come out I pull this trigger on the Punisher.”

Frank goes still. His gaze jerks upward, searching for Poindexter’s position—but then his eyes land on the grenade and alarm flares in his expression. If Poindexter pulls the trigger on Frank, the grenade will go off. Karen sees him sorting through options trying to decide whether to fight or to run.

But it isn’t Frank who answers first.

“No, you won’t.”

There’s the sound of something slamming into flesh, then a startled cry—and Karen realizes why Frank has been so intent on silence. It wasn’t so they could escape Poindexter—it was so Matt could find _him._

A crashing sound reverberates a few rows down, like someone falling from a high perch. Then a snarl of irritation, and the clang of metal. Karen ducks low, and before she can reach for the gun at her belt, Frank has her around the waist and sidesteps. “Get down, Red,” he snaps. She feels the muscles work beneath his shirt as he raises one arm and throws the grenade as hard as he can down one of the rows.

It sails through the air, and then—

It feels like a shock goes through the very air. Heat and force, and breaking glass. For a few heartbeats, Karen can’t hear anything but the sound of her own heartbeat.

When sound comes back to her, it’s to the sound of fighting. There’s smoke on the air—the scents of burning plastic and sour cement. Karen puts a hand out, steadying herself on a row of wooden pallets, and looks up. Matt and Poindexter are fighting; Matt keeps trying to drive Dex back, but the debris and his own knives ensure that Matt has to keep moving to avoid the projectiles. Frank pulls one of his guns, flicking the safety off, and the movement seems to draw Dex’s attention.

Rather than retreat, he surges forward. Slams into Matt and begins hitting him. The two tangle together in a mass of thrashing kicks and blows, and Karen realizes that Dex wanted this to happen. Frank can’t just shoot him.

“Take the goddamn shot,” Matt snarls, then he slams his head back, cracking into Dex’s nose. There’s a cracking sound—cartilage, not bone—and blood streams down Dex’s face.

Frank makes a sound—a growl that is all frustration. He sights down the gun, his aim moving by the smallest of increments as Dex and Matt fight. Karen watches his trigger finger twitch, but then Frank holsters his gun and rushes Dex. Dex blocks the first swing, then ducks under Matt’s arm.

Matt and Frank work in tandem, throwing blow after blow against Dex, going at him from both sides so quickly that Dex is hard-pressed to keep up. Matt is faster, but Frank makes up for it in ruthless practicality.

Dex takes blows that should have leveled him and he throws punches that crack against the wood when his fist just barely misses Matt’s face. Whatever those doctors did to him, they made him something else. Something far more dangerous than a run of the mill vigilante. And how, Karen reflects, fucked up is her life that she now considers vigilantes run of the mill?

Dex moves faster than Karen can see; one moment, Frank is throwing a punch and then Dex drives a shoulder into his chest, shoving Frank into the wooden pallets. Matt presses forward, but Dex rolls, bounces a piece of broken wood. It hits Matt in the back of his knee, driving him to the floor. Dex pins him, forearm to his throat. Frank is clawing his way out of a broken wooden pallet, cursing.

“You can’t beat me,” Dex pants, leaning harder against Matt’s throat. Matt makes a terrible choking sound—a wet little gasp as his fingers desperately try to get hold of the baton. It’s just out of reach. “They picked me because they knew I was better than you. And that was before.”

Then Frank is there, picking up the fallen baton. He slams it into Dex’s back, as if determined to re-break it.

But whatever those doctors did to Dex—it keeps him upright and moving, a wicked smile on his mouth as he rolled beneath one of the blows and kicks out. Frank manages to step back in time not to take the kick on his knee, but he has to move sideways, and in that moment, a knife appears in Dex’s hand. He flicks it into the air and it bounces off the floor, ricocheting at an angle that should be impossible, spinning toward Frank’s face.

There’s a flash of metal and a snarl—then blood is streaming down Frank’s cheek, a deep slice above his left eyebrow. For a moment she thinks he got out of the way in time—then she realizes the cut did precisely what it was meant to: his vision is obscured. Frank keeps having to blink blood out of his eyes, and the distraction is all Dex needs. He throws a punch at Matt and catches him on the chin. It would have been a painful blow—but with Dex’s reinforced skeleton, it bounces Matt’s skull off the cement floor. There’s a sickening sound of impact and Karen’s stomach turns over.

She can’t just stand here.

She raises her borrowed gun. The sound seems to draw Dex’s attention; she feels his gaze like a jolt of electricity, and the corner of his mouth quirks. It’s a boyish little smile, the grin of someone who is certain he’ll get away with something.

He jabs an elbow into Matt’s side; Matt grunts, rolling away in time so that the blow doesn’t break any ribs. In the same movement, Dex whirls and throws an empty clip at Frank. Frank lunges sideways, avoiding the projectile—but then it bounces off the wall, ricocheting from the concrete floor and—

_Pain._

Her gun clatters to the floor; her right hand is ringing with agony, and her arm feels—wrong, just wrong. It takes a heartbeat to realize that the projectile hit her elbow, and that’s why she has her arm pressed to her torso, why she’s gritting her teeth against a scream. Fuck—that hurts. She’s pretty sure he just broke her arm.

Karen staggers against the wooden pallets. She hears an intake of breath that sounds like her name and she looks up, blinking through the pain. Frank’s attention is on her, and for one impossibly long moment, time is suspended between them.

She watches something come apart in his eyes. He has remained remarkably calm throughout the events of the last week; she knows he’s been tamping down his fury and fear for her sake, but now it’s too much. Something just _collapses_ inward, like a dam finally cracking beneath the weight of too much water.

A wordless roar echoes through the warehouse. He whirls on Poindexter and—and it isn’t Frank anymore. This is all Punisher. She has seen him fight before—but never like this.

He moves with all of the swiftness and fury of a berserker, throwing himself into the fight like it’s all he is, all he ever needs. He slams blow after blow into Poindexter—into the meat of his stomach, then his neck, then his face. Dex fights back but he’s on the defensive, trying to keep up. Frank isn’t fighting to wound—every blow is delivered with the intent to kill, to crush, to end this. And when Dex tries to fight back, there isn’t time; Frank doesn’t give him a moment to recoup his balance.

Dex is forced back, past two more rows of pallets, until his back is to one of the propane tanks and there’s nowhere left to retreat. He is openly snarling now, all of his humor gone as he tries to fight back. He doesn’t like being beaten; Karen knows that. Dex is competitive to the last, needing to finish things, needing to win. That’s why he did all of this: to win.

And now he’s facing the prospect that he can’t.

Which means he’s more dangerous than ever.

She sees the decision come together in his face, and then Poindexter reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small pistol and tries to shove it up against Frank’s stomach.

The bulletproof vest suddenly seems even heavier around Karen’s shoulders. _No_ , she thinks, desperate. _Please, no._

Matt charges forward.

Frank darts to one side, wrapping an elbow around Dex’s arm and shoving the gun away just as Dex pulls the trigger once, twice and—

Frank’s eyes go wide.

Matt falls.

She doesn’t see where the bullets land—it doesn’t matter. Matt is on the ground and the gun is still in play—Frank trying to get it out of Dex’s hands. And Karen’t can’t fire, not with her left hand. There’s no chance she would hit her target.

Dex wrenches his arm out of Frank’s grip and punches him hard, the gun barrel slamming into Frank’s jaw. He staggers and drops to one knee, spitting blood across the cement floor.

Dex aims the gun a second time.

She can’t watch this happen. She can’t.

Karen throws her gun as hard as she can with her left arm. Dex side-steps the projectile, a contemptuous look on his face. “Really, Karen? I mean, I knew you weren’t smart, but—”

A shot rings out.

Dex jerks. He looks up, confusion on his face.

Blood blossoms across his chest, soaking into his shirt.

Vanessa Fisk stands some ten feet behind him Karen’s borrowed gun in her hand. She is dressed in slacks and a loose silk shirt, her hair pinned into a tight bun. Her mouth is painted the color of congealed blood.

“That was for my wedding, Mr. Poindexter,” she says softly.

More blood flows down Dex’s shirt; she must have managed to get the shot through his ribs out of skill or pure luck. Pain flickers across his face and he falls backward, landing heavily on the floor. “Stupid bitch,” he snarls. “H-how did you—”

“My security followed Mr. Murdock here,” says Vanessa Fisk calmly. Her gaze goes toward Karen. “Thank you for the weapon, Ms. Page.”

Karen nods in reply.

Matt, who is on his feet, one arm curled around his waist. He’s injured but standing—and Karen breathes a little easier.

Frank reaches down, wrenches the pistol free of Dex’s grip. Then, almost casually, he unloads two rounds into the muscle of Dex’s thigh. “You’re not running this time,” he says, voice guttural with fury. “No miracles, no medical solutions. You die here, asshole.”

Dex looks up at them, and there’s the smallest of smiles quivering at the edges of his mouth.

The bottom of Karen’s stomach drops out. She knows that smile; she first saw it at the Bulletin, when he gazed at her through the fake Daredevil mask. It’s the smile that has followed her into the worst of her dreams.

“I’ll see you all soon enough,” he says, then he reaches into his jacket.

A grenade appears between his fingers.

His back is to the propane tanks. Karen takes a step back.

“RUN!”

She isn’t sure who shouts; it isn’t her. Her chest is too tight to allow for sound.

The pin appears around Dex’s index finger, twirling there like a prize bit of jewelry.

And then everything happens at once.

Matt grabs Karen by the left arm and then they’re running, even as she calls out for Frank. She feels as though the world has sped up while her legs have been slowed. It’s one of those nightmares when she can’t run fast enough, when she knows she’s about to die but she’ll wake up when it happens. She’ll wake up, she’ll—

The first of the explosions knocks her off her feet.

It’s a mess—chaos and screaming and noise. She smells burning and something she is pretty sure is blood. She drags herself forward on hands and knees for a few moments, until she can rise to her feet again, and then she is moving. Through the smoke and the debris, and finally, to what she thinks is a door. Or maybe it’s just a hole torn through the wall—she doesn’t know. She can’t see Frank or Matt or Vanessa Fisk and fuck, she isn’t sure she could go back if she needed to; every instinct keeps her running for safety.

She gets outside, onto the dock itself. She smells the water of the Hudson and breathes raggedly for a few moments. The building is on fire—plumes of smoke twining into the air.

“Karen.” She looks up, sees Matt, face painted with dirt and blood. One of the shots hit him on the abdomen, and his hand is pressed there.

“Oh my god, Matt,” she says, and reaches for him. But she never finishes, because that is when the second explosion rips into the dock.

The world jerks beneath her. Karen feels herself fall, watches the world tilt sideways, and then—

She plunges into cold water. Into the Hudson.

The shock of it steals the movement from her arms and legs. She finds herself immobile for a few heartbeats, and then she’s sinking. She kicks her legs, but she’s too heavy, she’s—

Fuck. The vest. She may as well be wearing lead weights. She claws at the straps, but it’s dark and she can’t see what she’s doing. The cold water seems to pull her down, hungry and all-encompassing, and she chokes on it.

She can’t—

Something catches her in the back. She thinks she’s run into something—a tree branch or a metal bar, and she uses it to steady herself, to pull against the current of the river. She hold on tight for a moment, her other hand jerking at the bulletproof vest. Her lungs scream with agony, needing air, need to inhale so badly that it’s all she can think about. Finally, she manages to rip one of the straps free and she pulls the heavy weight off of her.

The vest drops away int the water and Karen kicks hard, propelling herself upward.

Her head breaks the surface. She gasps in a breath of air, even if it hurts. Her right arm is on fire, protesting every time she tries to swim with it, but she ignores the pain. She swims to shore, dragging herself onto land with a grim determination. By the time she’s safely on land, she is shaking so badly it hurts; every muscle hurts with exertion and she can still taste the river in her mouth and nose.

She lays on the pebbled side of the Hudson river, still too cold and too exhausted to speak. Her whole body aches with cold and bruises and her arm is on fire. She can feel darkness crowding in on her, and she almost welcomes it.

“KAREN!”

The sound of her name rouses her. She glances around, expecting to see someone, but there isn’t anyone else in sight. Then she realizes where the sound is coming from—the river itself.

“KAREN!”

That would be Frank. In the water—trying to find her.

“Shit,” she whispers.

She tries to sit up, but her head swims and she lays back down on her side. She says, as loudly as she can, “I’m here!”

She isn’t sure he can hear her, not above the sound of the rushing water. But it doesn’t matter—because someone else can. Someone with far better hearing.

She opens her eyes and sees Matt—walking unsteadily toward her, one arm around his stomach. Concern wells up within her; he’s going to need stitches and all kinds of antibiotics after falling in the Hudson with a gunshot wound.

Rocks slide beneath his feet as he skids to a halt, almost falling on his side. “Karen?”

“Hey,” she croaks.

Pure relief crosses his face. “Here!” He manages to yell much louder than she did, and Frank’s shouts go silent.

To Karen, Matt says, “You know when Foggy suggested we all hit the beach, this wasn’t what I had in mind.” He wobbles, and pain flickers across his face. She isn’t sure where the bullet—or bullets hit him—but he’s too pale for her comfort.

“Matt,” she says, concerned, but he waves her off.

“I’ll be fine.” He looks anything but fine, and Karen wants to protest, but then there are more footsteps—these ones harsh against the gravel, like someone is barreling toward them. Then Frank is beside her, water dripping off his hair and clothes. “Jesus,” he says hoarsely. “Karen.”

“Her arm’s injured,” says Matt. “We need to—”

“Get Curtis,” says Frank.

Matt frowns. “She’s freezing—we should—”

“We’re not moving her,” says Frank. “If that fall fucked up her spine or caused internal damage, we’d be making it worse. We need Curt—he knows this stuff.”

Matt hesitates, then nods. “I’ll find him,” he says, and takes off at an unsteady walk. Frank watches him go, then he leans down, gently pressing his forehead to Karen’s. He is warm, despite the chill of the river water. He is careful not to lean any of his weight against her, and it feels good to have him near. All of the fear and desperation of the last few hours seems to lift a little.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. “You all right, sweetheart?”

“I hate swimming,” she says, smiling tiredly at him. “Curt’s here?”

“Yeah, he tagged along. He was covering the exits, just in case.” One of his arms curls around her head, and she realizes it’s as much as a caress as it is to keep her still. “I’m gonna have him check you over, then we’ll get out of here.”

She gazes at him. The river washed some of the blood from his face, but there’s still a deep gash above his left eyebrow. “How bad are you hurt?”

He blows out a breath. “I’m gonna be bruised to all hell, but nothing’s broken. A few burns where some embers hit me on the back of the neck. It’s nothing bad, but there may be some interesting new scars.”

She uses her good hand, curling her fingers into his soaked shirt. “Poindexter?”

“Definitely dead,” says Frank. “No way he survived a gunshot and that explosion.”

She can see the reflection of the burning building on the water—the orange lights glimmering against the water.

“We did it,” Karen says. “Survived it all.”

The adrenaline is starting to burn itself out; Karen only realizes she’s trembling when Frank whispers, “Shh, shh,” and kisses her temple. There’s probably some emotional shock going on, she thinks, which would explain why she feels numb and exhausted, even with her right arm throbbing. She closes her eyes for what seems like a moment, but then Frank is speaking, drawing her out of the quiet.

“Hey, hey, hey,” says Frank, and his voice has changed. Still low—but there’s an edge to every word. “Don’t—don’t you do that, all right?”

“Frank?” Karen whispers, confused. He shifts, a little, angling his body across hers.

That’s when Karen hears the distinct sound of someone cocking a gun.

Karen’s heart lurches, but she can’t do anything. She can’t even sit up, not with Frank leaning over her.

“You put that down,” says Frank. It’s the careful tone a person would use with a spooked animal—level and calm.

“I don’t think so.”

Vanessa Fisk.

Oh. _Fuck._

“You can lower your weapon,” Franks says, and Karen can hear the forced calm. “Poindexter’s dead. You killed him. You did good. You could keep doing good.”

“I believe killing the Punisher would go down in history as good,” Vanessa says, and her own voice has that faltering veneer of calm.

“Then why aren’t you pointing that gun at me?” says Frank.

There is a moment of terrible quiet, when all Karen can hear is the sound of the river and Frank’s raspy breathing. Water drips from his shirt onto her collarbone, dribbling across her neck. The pebbles from the shore dig into her back and her right arm throbs in time with her heart. She takes in all of these things—while waiting to see if a bullet will rip into her. She knows at this range, if Vanessa pulls that trigger, Frank’s best intentions won’t amount to anything. A bullet would go right through him and into her.

“She killed my husband,” says Vanessa, the smallest of quavers in her voice. “She—she and those lawyers took everything from me. We were supposed to—everything was supposed to—”

“Listen, I get it,” says Frank. “You think your life’s supposed to go in one direction, then everything veers sideways. But killing her won’t change anything.”

“Perhaps not,” says Vanessa, “but it might feel good. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything good.”

Frank’s fingers tighten around Karen’s head. His thumb moves in circles just above her ear, and she thinks it’s supposed to be a calming little gesture. It only serves to remind her that she can’t move, that he won’t let her move.

“All right, then,” Frank says quietly. Then, more loudly, “She took your husband from you, right? Wasn’t a great loss for the world, I gotta say. I met him, and he was just as big a piece of shit as I thought he’d be.”

Karen’s heartbeat feels like a steady drum in her chest, so fast she’s almost sick with it. She knows what he’s doing—trying to goad Vanessa into pointing her weapon at him.

“Don’t you dare,” says Vanessa hotly, and Karen hears a ragged edge to her voice, the fraying self control.

“You want to know what kind of man your husband was? I’ll tell you—he was a greedy son of a bitch who didn’t know when to stop,” Frank snarls. “He came after us and it got him killed. You want to go the same way? Because if you pull that trigger on Ms. Page, that’s how this is going to end.”

“Not if I shoot you, too,” Vanessa says.

“You could do that,” says Frank. “If you’re a good enough shot. But let’s say you manage it, you shoot Karen and then you shoot me. We bleed out, you get to have your moment of triumph. It’ll feel good—for about five seconds. And then one of Daredevil’s batons is going to hit you in the head and you’re going to wake up in a jail cell. The lawyers will bury you. They’ll find a way to connect Poindexter to you, say that you were directing him all along to attack people. The hospital, Karen, all of it—it’ll lead back to you.”

“I didn’t,” Vanessa starts to say.

Frank snorts. “You think you have any chance of convincing a judge? Lady, you look even less innocent than I do, and that’s saying something. They will bury you in court, and you’ll go to prison, and one of your husband’s enemies will end up cutting your throat in your sleep. That’s how this is going to go, if you pull that trigger.”

Karen wishes she could look at Vanessa, try to see the other woman’s expression. She hates this helplessness, this feeling that she’s entirely at another’s mercy.

“Actually,” says another voice, “it won’t even go like that.” Curtis. It’s Curtis—a few feet away. “You even start to pull that trigger, lady, and I put you down. I don’t know who you are, but you happen to be holding a gun on two people that are important to me. Which means I won’t hesitate to protect them.”

There is the sound of gravel shifting. Time seems to stretch out, to drag seconds into hours, and Karen just wants it to be over. She is done with all of this, the running and the terror and the smoke and the bloodshed. She wants to sleep, to just blot out the world with her eyelids and drift away.

“I suggest,” says Matt, from somewhere to Karen’s left, “you go home.” His voice is pained but steady.

“You’ll let me leave?” Vanessa says, and her voice seems to be directed elsewhere.

“Yes.” Matt’s voice. A little roughened with smoke and exertion, but steady. “You go, and we have a truce. We’ll leave you alone.”

There’s a sharp hiss of frustration, then the sound of footsteps. Someone retreating, step by step, and then Frank lets out a breath. “Jesus fuck. Could you two have been any slower?”

“Sorry, man.” Curtis kneels beside them, gesturing Frank to move off of Karen. “Had to drive around the burning building, keep this guy from bleeding out, and find the closest path down to the river. You got any idea what a shitstorm this is going to be?”

Frank says, “Her arm—”

“I see it.” Curtis shines a line down on her, fingers sure and gentle. Even so, it still hurts. Karen lets out a quiet sound when he probes at her elbow. “Can you feel this?” He touches her palm.

“Not really,” Karen says. “Shit—that’s not good, is it?”

“Does she need a hospital?” Frank asks.

Curtis hesitates.

“Curt.” Frank’s voice is low, urgent. “If she needs an ER—”

“No hospital,” Karen says, trying to speak over him. A hospital will come with cops, with handcuffs attached to bedrails. If she goes to one, she’ll be arrested.

“If you need one,” he says, “we’re going.”

_We._

_We are going._

Which means if she needs a hospital, he’ll pay for it with his freedom—and most likely, his life. She has no illusions about will happen to the Punisher in prison.

She catches his hand with her good one. Her fingers are numb, but she tries to squeeze, to get her point across. “No.”

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is quiet, certain. “It’s okay.”

Curtis looks up. “The elbow—it’s dislocated, not broken. It’s not too swollen yet. The river actually did her some good, keeping things cold. The joint needs to be set.”

“I can hear sirens,” says Matt. “Cops are probably about three minutes out. We need to—”

“You,” says Curtis, “need to keep pressure on that bandage. I don’t think that bullet hit any organs, but it may have cracked your floating rib.” He looks down at Karen. “This is going to hurt. I’ll have to work slow, to make sure there isn’t more damage. I don’t have anything to give you for the pain—and there could be issues later on. I can’t give you an x-ray, check you out as well as they could at a hospital.”

“Just do it,” says Karen. She doesn’t care about the pain. She’s dealt with pain before.

“Karen,” says Matt. “Are you sure—”

“You want her to have full use of this arm for the rest of her life? Frank, get her shoulders.” Curt’s voice is all command. “I need her still for this and it’s gonna hurt.”

Karen chokes back a sound when someone touches her arm. “Look at me,” Frank is saying, and his forehead touches hers. “Karen, look at me—not at Curtis, okay?”

She meets his eyes—she has always loved his eyes. From the very beginning, it felt like he saw her. Like his gaze was all-encompassing, like all of the masks she wore for other people just fell away. He saw her. Just her.

She didn’t know how rare that was until she met him. And she doesn’t want to lose that.

“Frank,” she whispers. “Whatever happens—”

Someone takes hold of her arm and _pulls_. Agony flares bright and hot. It feels like someone pressed a hot brand against her skin. An involuntary scream rips out of her. Her body twists upward, spine arching. It feels like an iron bar presses against her chest, holding her to the damp ground.

There’s another tug against her arm and the pain is the bone-deep, sickening kind that wrenches at her stomach, that pulls the world’s edges taut and makes everything else slip away.

The last thing she sees are dark eyes.

Then blackness.


	14. Quickening

She wakes in an unfamiliar place.

The room is dark. Her damp clothes are gone, replaced with a garment that is loose and dry. She isn’t wearing a bra—and her right arm is bound against her torso. An IV is tucked into the crook of her left. She’s deliciously warm. Which means—

_Oh no._ They took her to a hospital. A small sound emerges from her throat and she tries to sit up. They have to leave, they need to run, she isn’t going to—

“Hey, hey.” A hand at her shoulder, keeping her down. “You’re okay.”

Her heart is still throbbing with panic; it takes a few moments for her thoughts to coalesce.

Frank is beside her. He is all bare skin and that’s why she is so warm, she realizes. He was sleeping beside her and he tends to run warm. They can’t be at a hospital, then—the bed would be smaller and Frank wouldn’t be allowed to stay with her. “W-where?” she whispers, throat dry.

“Motel,” says Frank. “We’re at a motel.”

Someone stitched the deep gash above his left eyebrow. There are bruises forming along his jaw and cheek, purples shading into deep crimson. She suspects if she were to look down, more contusions would be scattered along his torso. But her attention is all on his face, trying to look for answers.

“Avo,” she starts to say.

“Baby’s fine,” he says, soothingly. “Murdock says her heartbeat sounds good. We put you on some IV fluids, just in case.” He rises to one elbow, gazing down at her. “How’re you feeling?”

She licks her cracked lips. Lies are considered and tossed away, because she’s simply too exhausted to reassure him. “Tired.”

“Go back to sleep.” His thumb strokes back and forth, just above her brow. It feel so soothing that she begins blinking again, struggling to stay awake. “You’ve earned some rest.”

She doesn’t want to sleep again. She should be planning, should be helping, but she drops off between one blink and the next.

The next time she awakens, it’s because she really, really needs to pee.

She sits up slowly. She’s on a bed, covered in heavy blankets. The IV is still tucked into her left arm. “Frank?” Her voice is croaky. The bed is empty, and for one terrible moment she thinks she dreamed the last time she woke—maybe they did go to the hospital, perhaps he’s gone and—

Footsteps, and then Curtis appears in the doorway. “Hey,” he says, smiling as he comes up to the bed. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” She looks around the room—the walls are old, the paint peeling. “Where are we?”

“A kind of shitty hotel that accepts cash and doesn’t require ID,” Curtis says, a bit ruefully. “Only place we could think to immediately hole up. Honestly surprised the sound of our neighbors getting it on an hour ago didn’t wake you.”

Karen laughs, then coughs. “Where’s Frank? Matt?”

“Frank went for food.” Curtis squats beside the bed. “As for your lawyer friend in the red costume, he’s been passed out on the couch for a few hours. He’s a little banged up, but as long as that wound doesn’t get infected, he’ll be okay.” Curt carefully removes her IV, tapes a cotton ball across the inside of her elbow, the nods. “How’re you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” she says. “And like I really need to use the bathroom.”

“Let’s get you there.” He helps her up out of the bed. She’s still shaky; she doesn’t know why.

“You were hypothermic,” says Curt, as if he can guess her thoughts. “Dehydrated. Your right elbow was dislocated. Also getting blown up is bad for one’s stress levels.” He grins ruefully. “I would know.”

Karen stands on her own, gives him a nod of thanks, and heads for the bathroom. As she’s washing her hands, she glances in the mirror. Her skin appears blanched in the flickering light; no wonder Curtis offered to help her stand. Karen leans against the sink and takes stock of herself.

Her back aches—probably from being slammed into a row of metal shelves, getting knocked off her feet, and falling into the river. Her right elbow is carefully wrapped and secured to her torso with a sling. It aches, and the pain is the kind that wrenches deep. She remembers that kind of ache from her car accident years ago; sometimes, she still feels the twinges. Injuries have a tendency to linger.

After she’s finished using the bathroom, she surveys the motel room. She is wearing a long shirt and panties, and while she’s almost too exhausted to be self-conscious, she’d still rather be dressed. She finds their backpack atop the dresser and digs out a pair of Frank’s sweatpants. They’ll do.

The motel room is a suite—albeit, a slightly grungy, badly lit one. She walks into the living room. Sure enough, Matt is on the couch. He has an IV, and there’s a wide swath of bandages across his bare stomach. He still looks too pale, and his face is bruised along his jaw and temple.

As she pads into the living room, Matt’s eyes flick open. “Karen.” It isn’t a question.

“Hey, Matt.” She sits on one of the chairs. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got shot.” He smiles—and it’s half a grimace. “Bullet glanced off my ribs, and Mr. Hoyle assures me I’ll be fine.”

There is a snort from the kitchenette. Karen glances up to see Curtis pouring water from a kettle into two paper cups.

“What he means is, ‘I’ll be fine if I stop trying to get up off that couch,’” Curtis says. “You’re a worse patient than Frank, and that’s saying something.” He brings a cup to Karen, and nods her thanks. Inside is a warm amber tea. Lemon. “If you pop those stitches again, so help me I will let them fester.”

“Again?” says Karen.

“It was one stitch,” says Matt evenly. “And I’m fine.”

“Worse than Frank,” Curtis repeats. “At least him I could just knock out with drugs. You—you can smell them coming.”

“Narcotics slow me down,” says Matt. “And if something happens—”

“If something happens, I’m dealing with it,” Curtis replies. “You are going to lie there like a good little vigilante and stop ruining my perfectly good sewing job.”

Karen glances at Curtis. “Thanks for everything,” she says. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in it.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

There’s a knock at the door after twenty minutes. Curtis checks the peep hole before opening the door. Frank strides in, a duffel bag over one shoulder. He wears unfamiliar clothing—dark jeans, a utility jacket, and a brand new baseball cap. He also carries a paper bag, and the distinct smell of food wafts from it.

“Hey,” he says, when he sees Karen. He makes it to the chair in two strides. “You’re awake.” He touches her cheek, and at first she thinks it’s an affectionate gesture—then she realizes he’s checking her temperature. She exhales, amused, then takes his hand and kisses his palm. “We’re done with life threatening situations, you got that?” he murmurs.

“Seconded,” says Matt, from the couch.

“Thirded.” Curtis picks up the bag of food and carries it to the kitchenette.

They end up eating bowls of soup and freshly baked bread from a restaurant a few blocks away. The taste of chicken and dumplings is better than anything Karen can remember eating in living memory, and she devours her bowl in record time. Matt manages about half a bowl of lentil soup before falling asleep again.

Frank and Karen retreat wordlessly to the bedroom. The chairs in the suite aren’t the most comfortable, so she settles back on the bed, wadding up two pillows against the wall. Frank slips out of his combat boots and coat, and she watches him as he comes to the bed. He moves a little stiffly, and she suspects there are injuries he hasn’t mentioned. That fight with Poindexter did not leave him unscathed. Even so, it doesn’t stop him from sitting beside her and pulling her into a tight hug. She can feel the slight shake to his breath, the hitch in his exhale that says exactly how much the last few hours have weighed on him. “Hey,” she says, running her hand over his shoulder to the tightly short hair at the nape of his neck.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

For a few seconds, she simply enjoys the closeness and his warmth. It might have been any other day, snuggling on a bed. But the pillows are too soft, the smell of the motel unfamiliar.

“What happened?” she says.

Frank pulls back a little, but only to readjust his position, settling them both more comfortably on the bed. “You mean after I came upstairs, found you gone and a smear of blood across the window and nearly had a goddamn heart attack?”

She winces. “Yeah.”

“I followed the trail. Found your phone in the street—taking those pictures, that was smart. Led us right to him. Lieberman did a search of traffic cameras. We found the warehouse in under an hour.” He sighs. “Poindexter threatened me, didn’t he? That’s how he got you out of the house. He didn’t come in and take you.”

She blinks, surprised. “How’d you—”

“Because if he threatened you or the baby, you’d have found a way to let me know,” he says heavily. “Shouted, broken something. There was plenty of cover in that bedroom—you could’ve gotten behind the bed or into the bathroom.” Frustration crosses his face. “I should’ve kept every blind shut in that house. I knew he was a sniper, should’ve—”

She touches his cheek. Stubble rasps beneath her hand. “We both let our guards down. It wasn’t your fault.”

He doesn’t look comforted. “We had Curt covering the warehouse exits, but when he saw a strange woman go in there, he wasn’t about to shoot her. Mrs. Fisk must’ve had someone tailing Murdock ever since you told her about Poindexter. She had as much reason to hate him as we did.” He shakes his head. “Where did you even get that gun?”

“Poindexter put me in a freezer. Rigged up the door with that grenade so that anyone who tried to open it would’ve killed us both. There were bodies in there,” Karen says. She’s too tired to be truly horrified, but Frank draws in a sharp breath. “One of them was a cop. He still had his gun.”

“Sick bastard.” Frank’s fingers move along her shoulder, stroking back and forth. “He deserved what he got.”

Karen remembers the jerk of Poindexter’s body when Vanessa Fisk pulled the trigger.

“What happened to the warehouse?” she asks.

Frank shakes his head. “Whole thing went up. After that Vanessa Fisk backed off, we got you to the car, then came here.” He blows out a breath. “Still wasn’t sure it was the right idea. Probably should’ve just taken you to a hospital. We would’ve, if you’d been bleeding or—or there were any signs the baby needed help.”

Karen brushes her fingers across the small swell of her stomach; it feels a little more prominent, but maybe that’s just her imagination. According to the books, the avocado is no longer avocado-sized. Soon, she’ll be moving around and listening and—and on the way. A little girl.

When Karen looks up, she sees Frank watching her.

“Offer’s still good, you know,” he says quietly. “If you want to stay. You could go back to work—or not. Find a new apartment. Raise our kid right, because I know you will. Let Nelson take her to amusement parks and watch Murdock try to drag her to church. If that’s what you want.”

He would do it in a heartbeat, she knows. He would turn himself into the cops and confess to everything, if they promise Karen immunity.

She could have a somewhat normal life again. All it would cost is Frank’s life.

Some prices are too high.

“No,” she says. “I couldn’t.”

Frank closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he reopens them, his face is set in lines of steel. “All right.”

And just like that, the decision has been made.

They’re leaving.

* * *

It’s surprisingly easy to run.

They don’t have much to pack. Frank has the backpack of things he took from the apartment, and now she’s grateful he had that foresight; they have some clothes, her toothbrush, her vitamins, a comb, the false papers that he had made for Karen, and her favorite pajamas. Her only family heirloom is around her neck, and besides that—she doesn’t really need anything else. She’ll miss some of the things in their apartment: the nice coffee maker, the bookshelves, their oversized bed. But those are luxuries, rather than necessities.

Karen ends up spending most of the day napping—something she would feel embarrassed about, if not for Curt saying it’s probably the best thing for both her and the avocado. She takes Tylenol for her elbow and the bruises, and falls asleep beneath the cheap motel duvet cover. Frank leaves to go speak with a contact about his new ID. From the little Karen knows of him, apparently he’s a forger who owes Frank for saving him from a few Russian mobsters. It takes about three days for him to put together a new identity for Frank. Pete Castiglione’s identity has been compromised; their neighbors will recognize his face and so will his coworkers, when the police trace him back to Karen’s apartment.

Frank Castle is now Frank Conway—she asks him to keep his first name, if only because when their child is born, they don’t want to confuse her with two different names for her father. This identity is a little shakier than his last one, this one having been built without the aid of a covert government agency. But it should hold up well enough.

Karen still has the fake papers he bought for her back when this all began: Karrin Castle. Ironically, she’ll now be the only Castle between them.

She calls Foggy on a burner phone. She has to tell him everything that’s happened, and everything that will happen. She says goodbye—at least, for now. And she tries to pretend both of them aren’t crying.

She wants to call Ellison, but she can’t. It’s too risky, and she couldn’t bear to hear the disappointment in his voice. With the explosion at the docks, she hopes that she and Frank will be assumed dead. So she writes a letter on a piece of motel stationary, telling him how much he means to her. She doesn’t date it, but she gives it to Matt to deliver.

Matt seems to know what she has planned even before she tells him. He doesn’t try to dissuade her, although she can tell he wants to. He wants her to stay and fight, to put her faith in the legal system, to confess. To do what he would do.

But he knows her well enough not to argue. He merely pulls her into a tight embrace.

Matt Murdock was the first person who ever made her feel safe in New York. And she tells him so, whispers her farewell into his ear.

Frank has his own goodbyes; he talks to Curtis and David, and when she walks out of the motel, it is to a strange car. An old Ford—one that Frank assures her can’t be traced to either of them. They load up their few supplies into the trunk, and Frank gets behind the wheel. His face is unreadable, those cuts have scabbed over and a certain tightness to his mouth. Karen clips her seatbelt into place, and watches as the familiar skyline begins to slip away.

Karen Page came to New York looking for a new life.

She leaves carrying one with her.

* * *

They drive for the better part of three days.

They drive through cities and countryside alike, avoiding toll roads—the checkpoints are too much of a risk. Frank wears a baseball cap and sunglasses, and Karen has her sweatshirt’s hood up. Her arm aches steadily, but she doesn’t dare take more than Tylenol for the pain. When they need to sleep, Frank pulls off the road, finds a wooded place or an abandoned road. Karen sleeps curled up in the backseat, her legs at an awkward angle, while Frank cranks the driver’s seat back as far as it’ll go. It isn’t truly comfortable, but it isn’t safe to stop anywhere. Not yet. Even stopping for food and gas feels like a risk; Karen glances at security cameras out of the corner of her eye, keeping her face averted.

They drive and drive and drive—until finally, they stop some place in Georgia. Frank picks a bed and breakfast—one that looks old-fashioned and touristy and won’t have cameras in the parking lot. It’s a cute little place, brimming with fresh flowers and lace doilies. Karen is the one to go to the front desk; she knows she looks like the more benign of the two of them, and her bruises are hidden beneath her shirt.

The key is the heavy, old-fashioned kind and she and Frank walk up a narrow flight of stairs to a small room. It looks like something out of an antiques shop: all old furniture and crocheted curtains and even an old doll sitting on the chair. It has blonde ringlets and a thousand-yard stare. Frank looks as though he’d rather sleep on the rock-hard ground than in the company of that doll.

Karen picks it up, then turns the doll so it’s hollow-eyed gaze isn’t pointed at them.

“Better?” she asks.

Frank grimaces. “That thing is creepy as fuck.” He turns away from it. “Listen, I saw a grocery store on the way in. I’m going to grab some supplies, dinner. I hate saying this, but—”

“I should stay here,” Karen says. “If anyone’s looking for us, they’re looking for a couple. Besides, I could use a nap.” She sits on the edge of the bed. It creaks beneath her. “Bring me back some vinegar chips?”

“Can do.” He tugs his baseball cap a little lower; it’s becoming a habit. He takes the key, gives her a nod, and strides out the door.

Karen lays down on the bed, glad for the chance to stretch out.

It’s the first time she’s been alone in several days. The silence and the solitude are heavy. Karen stares at a place on the wall—a smudge of paint.

None of it has sunk in yet. It still feels as though she’ll wake in their old apartment, complain of the terrible water pressure in the shower, and then go to work at the Bulletin.

She won’t ever walk into those offices again.

She thinks of her desk, of how she left her favorite mug there. It was a gift from Foggy and Matt after she returned to work for the paper: a stupid little mug that said “I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE.” It made her laugh and she used it every morning for her coffee at work.

She wonders what will happen to that mug. If it’ll get tossed into the lost and found, or if perhaps Ellison will take it.

Unbidden, tears rise to her eyes and she finds herself finally crying. Days worth of emotion spill over, and she leans across her knees, crying so hard that it feels like she might tear something in her lungs.

Everything she built for herself, everything she worked for—it’s gone. Her apartment, her friends, her job, her whole fucking life.

She chokes back another sob, scrabbling for her purse. She needs to grab her tissues out of it—

A purse she doesn’t have anymore. This one is new, empty of all the detritus that builds up—receipts, tissues, bandages. She feels strangely bereft without it all. She scrubs her sleeve across her face, trying to wipe away the tears.

When she’s finished crying, she feels raw and somehow lighter—as if she let go of something. She settles in on the bed, turns on the tv and browses aimlessly through the channels.

Frank returns after about half an hour, laden with enough food for a family of four, rather than just the two of them. Well, two and a half. “I wasn’t sure what to get,” he says, setting down the bag on the small table. “So I grabbed a few things.”

Karen picks a cup of potato soup and mixes half a bag of salt and vinegar chips into the soup like croutons. Frank watches with a mixture of amusement and vaguely horrified fascination. “You know, I read about some pregnant people craving dirt,” he says.

Karen shovels a spoonful into her mouth. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” he says, with a half-smile. “Just glad it’s potato chips and not… I don’t know. Raw garlic or something.”

They end up watching the news as they eat. She wishes she could have a beer, but there’s the avocado to think about. She touches her slightly rounded stomach, traces the curve of it. Back and forth, back and forth, wondering if her daughter can feel the gentle touch.

Her daughter. She thinks the words again, tries to make them sound real.

Frank has a map spread out across his lap. “There anywhere you want to go?”

She shrugs.

“Come on,” he says. “First place you can think of, a place you’ve never visited before but wanted to.”

“New Orleans.” The words are out of her mouth before she even realizes she’s saying them.

“Really?” A flash of a smile touches his mouth.

She flushes. “I read _Interview with the Vampire_ when I was in college, okay? Some of my friends went down for spring break, but I could never afford to.”

He picks up the map, traces a line. “We could do it. Stay there for a while. We need a place to lay low while my beard grows back and the news dies down.” He shrugs. “New Orleans is as good a place as any.”

* * *

Karen likes New Orleans.

They end up renting a furnished apartment on the edge of the French Quarter. It has a balcony that overlooks one of the narrow streets, and they can watch ghost tours ramble by. The food is good—Karen thinks she probably eats her own weight in jambalaya and beignets, and Frank appreciates the coffee.

Karen sends Foggy a postcard—unmarked, of course. Just to let him know that they’re all right.

They spend most of the first month in that apartment. Karen’s arm needs time to heal, and Frank’s bruises have to fade. They’re too recognizable, and the news is still too fresh. The Punisher being at large, apparently on the run with his former legal counsel is quite the juicy story, and if it happened to someone else, Karen isn’t sure she would have been able to resist writing about it.

Karen can feel Frank watching her much of the time. He keeps his worry carefully caged, but she knows him. She can see it in the lines of his forehead and the way his eyes linger on her. There were too many close calls, too many brushes with what could have been, and too many nights when she awakens from dreams of him tied to a chair, a gun to his head and Fisk’s voice in her ears.

They’re both still a little wounded, even when her arm comes out of the sling and Frank removes the stitches from his forehead.

It’ll get better. Karen tells herself that when they’re out for a rare walk, and a car backfires a few feet away from them. Frank has her up against a wall in a fraction of a second, his body tense as corded wire. They’re safe, they’re both safe—but neither of them can quite believe it yet.

There’s an older man sitting on a bench of their apartment building, and he regards Frank not with suspicion—but with something like understanding. “It’ll get better, son,” he says, nodding at them. “It’s always rough when you first get back.”

Frank nods tersely.

When they’re up in the apartment again, she ends up pulling Frank down onto the bed and just wrapping her arms around him. He’s still stiff, every muscle tense. “We’re okay,” she says quietly.

The next time they go out, Karen buys a box of hair dye. When she emerges from the bathroom, damp hair a coppery red, Frank raises his eyebrows. “Too much?” she asks.

“No,” he answers. “It looks good. It’s just… it’ll take some getting used to.”

They don’t work. It’s strange; Karen feels like a boat adrift, with nothing to tether her. No responsibilities, no life, no friends. It doesn’t help that her hormones are weird. She oscillates between sad and horny. But at least she has praline candy to help with the former and Frank is more than willing to help with the latter.

She misses the Bulletin. She misses Foggy and Marci, Matt, Ellison, even Mahoney. She misses the sense of purpose she once had, the belonging.

After a month has passed, Frank’s beard and Karen’s hair seem different enough that they venture out into the city more often. It’s a beautiful place, and there is much to explore. They pass tourists drinking daiquiris out of fishbowl-sized cups, meander through used bookshops, and even do one of those bayou tours. Karen picks up books written by the authors who lived in New Orleans, and they read them together, chapter by chapter, aloud to her stomach every night. That stomach is growing at a faster rate now, and none of her pants fit. Luckily, the dress code for this city seems to be loose sundresses, something she adopts after a few days in the heat.

One afternoon, Karen goes out for beignets and returns with a weird tremor in her stomach. She walks up the stairs to their apartment and finds Frank on the phone with David Lieberman. He’s been checking in every few days or so, using different burners. David seems to consider it his duty—probably because he’s the only one of their friends who is tech-savvy enough to stay in regular contact. “—Yeah, yeah,” Frank is saying. “You tell Leo and Zach hi from me, okay?”

He hangs up, and nods a greeting to Karen. “How’s the city?”

“Humid,” she says, and sits on the couch. She shifts, places a hand on her swollen stomach, and grimaces.

“You feeling okay?” He sits beside her.

There’s a gentle throb in her gut—and while she first thought it was indigestion, now she isn’t so sure. She frowns down at herself, then takes his hand and places it on her stomach. “You feel that?”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then there’s a shiver deep within her.

Frank goes a little pale. “Is that—”

“I’m not an expert,” she says. “But I think the avocado’s on the move.”

Frank ducks his head, so that his voice is directed at her stomach. “Hey, you,” he says. “You getting some exercise in there?”

As if in answer, there’s a slight quiver.

He lets out a short, startled laugh. She hasn’t seen him smile like that since the day she found Poindexter in their old apartment. It’s the kind of smile that crinkles the edges of his eyes, makes him look softer and lighter.

Karen covers his hand with hers, holds it there.

* * *

She’s six month and a half months pregnant when they leave New Orleans.

It isn’t safe to settle in one place—not yet.

Karen won’t miss the humidity, but she will miss the food. It’s impossible to hide her pregnancy—they end up buying several dresses at a maternity store, and she can no longer touch her toes. They get one last order of beignets for Karen and coffee for Frank before driving out of the city. Frank seems glad to be on the road again, and she understands that. There’s a comfort in being on the move, a safety. They end up getting a few audiobooks for the car and Karen settles in, hand across her swollen belly to feel for movement, while Frank drives northwest.

“How is the avocado doing?” Frank asks. He says the words lightly, but Karen can hear the underlying worry.

Karen sips at a water bottle. “She was bouncing around this morning, but I think she’s settled in for a nap or something.”

The one thing they can’t do is regular prenatal visits. According to her books, she should be going every two weeks, but they don’t have a regular doctor and many places aren’t accepting new patients. Hospitals aren’t safe. She checks her blood pressure at those machines in pharmacies and keeps a file on her phone about how often the baby moves, checking everything against her well-worn pregnancy book. Everything seems normal, at least.

Finally, they stop at a Planned Parenthood in Colorado and Frank pays with cash. Karen talks with a nice doctor who takes blood and urine samples, checks Karen’s weight and blood pressure, and asks a few general questions. She emerges with a clean bill of health.

“We’ll need to find a place to settle before the avocado is born,” she says, that night in a hotel room. Frank is curled beside her, and she runs her fingers through his hair. It’s finally grown out, and she’s glad for it. It makes him look less like the Punisher and more like the photo on his fake driver’s license.

“Got any ideas?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I was thinking west coast. It’s as far as we can get from New York. And I kind of like the idea of being near an ocean.”

“Really?” He flashes her a half-smile.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just—I think it’d be nice to bring her to the ocean. Let her play in the sand or find seashells. It’s probably just a stupid, idealistic fantasy but—”

“It isn’t,” he says. “I—that sounds good.” He runs a hand across her stomach. “Beaches, huh? I think we could manage that.”


	15. Alighting

They end up in a small town on the coast of northern Washington.

The motel is old but clean, and the woman at the front desk beams at Frank and Karen when they check in. That’s one thing Karen has noticed—no one regards them with suspicion the moment her belly is on display. “It’s like wearing a sign that says, ‘Trust me, I have a tiny human inside of me,’” she says that evening, when they eat at a local restaurant that night. It’s an Italian place, and the mushroom ravioli Karen orders is surprisingly good. “We could be bank robbers for all they know.”

Frank snorts. “Pretty sure you waddling away from a crime scene would draw attention.”

She resists the urge to throw a breadstick at him, but only because she wants to eat it. “I do not waddle.”

It’s true that her gait has shifted; her balance is off, and her lower back has begun to protest when she stands for too long. Or sits too long. Or really, any moment of the day. Not to mention the avocado has begun making herself known. The gentle twitches have shifted into jolts and occasional jabs at Karen’s insides.

Frank has a local paper spread out across the table as they eat, and he glances through rental places. When the server walks by to check on them, she says, “You two looking for a place to stay?” She refills their glasses of water, beaming at Frank.

Frank has a way of charming servers. Karen isn’t even sure how he does it half the time—it’s some combination of manners and his jawline.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “We’re looking for a fresh start.”

The server smiles at Karen. “How far along are you?”

This is the other thing about being pregnant, Karen has come to realize. People feel free to ask all sorts of personal questions. But as this woman looks to be the grandmotherly sort, Karen’s hackles don’t rise. “Thirty-one weeks.”

“That’s such a sweet time,” says the server, with a kind of fond remembrance. Then her gaze snaps down to the paper. “You know, you should talk to Erin. I know she just inherited her aunt’s cottage—she hasn’t listed it, because it needs some repairs. But if you’re looking for someplace affordable, you might be able to work something out.” She scribbles down an address and a phone number on a napkin.

“Small towns,” Karen says dryly, as the server goes to check on another table.

They do end up looking at that house—well, it’s more of a cottage. Karen peers inside through a window. They probably look like creepers, and more of the neighbors might protest, but the sight of a pregnant lady ambling around the front yard seems more amusing than alarming.

“It’s kind of cute,” says Karen, walking around the porch. “And the beach is only a five minute walk down the road.”

“In this town, everything is only a five minute walk away,” says Frank.

“That’s good, because honestly I’m not sure I can walk much farther than that.”

Frank’s hand finds the small of her back, moving in small circles. It helps with the ache.

“The roof looks like it needs some work,” he says, studying the cottage. “But besides that, it looks sound. Good foundations, and that porch looks sturdy.”

Karen winces as the avocado does what feels like a jerky somersault. “Is it weird to think that you’re sexy when you’re talking about home repairs?”

He flashes her a half-smile. “I’m going to talk to that landlord,” he says. “Might be worth a bit of repair work, if they’ll let us rent it without a credit report or anything.”

The landlord is a young woman who inherited the house, and has a twenty-something’s budget, and she’s more than grateful to rent it to an expecting couple, one of whom offers to repair the roof for her, in exchange for a decent rent.

Frank seems glad for the work, for something to do. Karen knows how he feels; the lack of routine is starting to make her restless and irritated—not helped by the fact that she hasn’t been sleeping well. She explores the town a little as Frank begins work on the cottage; she wanders through the streets, down to the beach and back up to the highway. There is a coffee shop that seems promising and a few parks.

It takes about two weeks for Frank to get the cottage fixed up, and then they move their few belongings into it. It’s nice—airy and well-lit. Two bedrooms. They furnish it with secondhand furniture and a string of terribly gaudy seashells that Karen hangs above the kitchen window. They look like something that should be in a beach cottage.

The framed picture of Frank’s family goes in the bedroom, on a bookshelf that she finds at a garage sale. She places her own family picture beside it, and realizes for the first time that her father is the last of the Pages. Her mother and brother are gone, and Karen is technically missing. She keeps an eye on the news, just in case. No one here seems to connect the Punisher with Frank. To her delight, Frank’s hipster beard fits right in. She teases him about it mercilessly, until he kisses her quiet.

The locals are welcoming enough. To them, Frank and Karen are simply a new couple, having moved into the area because they find it beautiful. The town consists of a lot of older retirees, tourists, and a nearby campground that apparently is popular in the summer months. Things have a tendency to shut down on Mondays or Tuesdays, and there’s only one real coffeeshop. It takes the baristas there less than a week to learn Frank’s name and order. As for Karen, she stops by for herbal tea and just to get out of the house. One day, when she is reading a book on the porch of the coffeeshop, two women ask to share her table and welcome her to the town. There’s a mom’s group, they tell her, and they sometimes share babysitting duties and get together for play dates. It’s nice to talk to new people, and the women—Nicole and Tammy—are friendly without being overbearing. Karen ends up getting their emails.

The avocado is active at night now, and it’s becoming common to wake at four in the morning to the faint imprint of a hand. “It’s like Alien,” she says, one morning when she can see Avocado’s foot. “No one ever tells you how creepy pregnancy actually is.”

“It isn’t creepy,” says Frank, running his hand across her bare stomach. The outline of the foot vanishes.

“That’s because you’re not being poked from the inside.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really? It just feels really weird. And when she kicks me in the bladder, that’s not fun.”

There is a midwife working out of a nearby town, and Karen and Frank drive south to see her. Hospitals are still too risky. The woman is surprisingly brisk and businesslike, looking over Karen with a practiced ease. She accepts payments in cash, and promises that a home birth is doable. “You’re not high risk,” she says, once Karen is dressed again. “Your tests look good. We can set up appointments for every other week, just to check in, but I think you’ll be fine.”

Karen emails Foggy occasionally through an email that David Lieberman set up—through layers of encryption or something else, she’s fuzzy on the details. All she knows is that it’s supposedly secure. She never tells Foggy precisely where she is, but she does send little updates about how they’re doing and promises that when things finally calm down, they’ll find a way to visit. He and Matt are doing well, and through the emails, Karen catches glimpses of their old life.

There’s a new reporter covering the crime beat of the Bulletin.

She doesn’t read those articles.

A few of the locals see Frank working on the cottage’s roof, and word spreads that there’s a new handyman about. Within a month, Frank has people offering him jobs to fix broken windows and rotting porches. It’s good—because most people are willing to pay in cash. He takes odd jobs here and there, and Karen begins trying to sort out an attempt at a nursery. She isn’t sure if this is some kind of nesting instinct like the books talk about or just a desire to have something to do.

“Green,” she says, when Frank comes home from fixing an old lady’s broken garbage disposal. Karen suspects it’s mostly an opportunity for the older woman to ogle Frank’s ass in those dark jeans.

Frank washes his hands before coming to stand beside her in the doorway. She is gazing at the smaller bedroom with a calculating eye. “Green?” he says.

“Green,” she confirms.

“For the avocado.”

“Got it in one.” She angles herself so she can wrap an arm around his waist; she can’t really hug him straight-on these days. Her stomach is too big. She isn’t quite sure when it got so huge, but it feels as if everything has sped up, her life on fast-forward, barreling toward a change she isn’t sure she’s ready for. She’s exhausted most of the time, her breasts have started leaking—much to her mortification—and she’s dizzy if she stands too quickly. She lets out a sigh.

“Hey.” Frank’s hand moves along her lower back, fingers brushing along her spine. It feels good. He doesn’t say anything, but she feels him kiss her hair, and she can hear the words as though he spoke them aloud. _I love you. I love you, and we’ll paint the nursery any color you want, even if I think you’re taking the avocado motif too far._

She holds him tighter.

They paint the nursery in shades of pale green, and the crib is ordered online and Frank puts it together while Karen tries to do some kind of yoga intended to help with the birthing process. Really, it’s more of an excuse to lie down while Frank curses quietly at an Ikea instruction manual. “—No fucking words, why would they—”

The baby twitches, her stomach visibly jumping, and Karen rubs a hand over the bump. “We’re going to have to start a swear jar so her first word isn’t ’shit.’”

“I don’t see why they can’t just tell me which screws to use instead of trying to illustrate them,” says Frank, trying to fit two planks of wood together.

“Because that would be too easy.” Her stomach twitches again. Then again. It feels—strange. Not like a kick or a jolt, but something more spasmodic. Karen’s heartbeat quickens, and she waits. Frank is still quietly grumbling to himself when her stomach jumps again, the sensation startling. “Shit.”

“That was you swearing, this time,” says Frank. He has managed to put a corner together.

Another jolt. This isn’t normal. Karen tries to sit up, the falters. “Frank?” Her voice is too high, thin with alarm.

All of his good-natured grumbling dies away in a moment. He strides across the nursery, squatting beside her. “What’s wrong?”

Her stomach twitches visibly. “That,” says Karen. “It’s stronger than before—oh fuck, it can’t be contractions—it’s far too soon.”

Frank helps her to her feet, and Karen waddles to the couch, one hand firmly clamped around her stomach. He pulls out his phone, dialing the midwife. Karen waits for each twitch, growing worried with every spasm. Frank’s face is hard, and when the midwife says she can be over in half an hour, he hangs up the phone and says, “Maybe we should go to a hospital.”

Karen hesitates. It’s a risk—it’s such a risk. But nor can she allow any harm to come to this child. “We’ll see what the midwife says,” Karen replies, but her voice is taut with worry. “If it’s—fuck, if it’s some kind of preterm labor—” Her voice breaks.

Frank sits beside her at once, pulling her close. “Hey, hey.” She feels his lips against her forehead. “Whatever it takes, yeah? We’ll do whatever we have to.”

She is shaking—every spasm of her stomach making her heart lurch with fear.

The midwife finally arrives, striding toward the couch and asking Karen when the movement started and how she’s feeling. She listens to the baby’s heartbeat, then rises. Karen’s heartbeat is still too fast, and she awaits the older woman’s pronouncement.

But the midwife is smiling.

“It isn’t contractions,” she says. “Not even Braxton-Hicks.”

“Then what is it?” Frank sounds as though he’s biting back his impatience.

“It’s hiccups,” says the midwife.

Karen blinks. “What?”

“Hiccups,” repeats the midwife. “Your baby has the hiccups. Perfectly harmless, although it’s a little annoying.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Karen says, “Seriously?”

“It happens,” says the midwife, smiling. “You just have to wait them out. You can try walking around or drinking a glass of water, but honestly, it’s more for you than the baby.”

Frank walks the midwife out of the cottage while Karen sits on the couch and glares at her own stomach, feeling vaguely betrayed. “You are a trouble maker,” she tells her stomach.

Her stomach twitches in response.

She does end up drinking some water and walking around, and finally, after another fifteen minutes, the hiccups die away. “I think she managed to wear herself out,” says Karen, looking up. Frank has remained a little distance away, standing near the kitchen window. His arms are crossed, his expression remote. “What is it?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“Frank.” She holds her hand to to him and he walks over to the couch, sitting beside her. Still, it feels as though some part of him is far away.

“Thought that was it,” he says, finally.

“What?”

Frank runs a hand across his face. “Putting that crib together—felt like the last thing, you know? Like we did it, we made it. But then—then you said my name and I could tell you were scared to death. Felt like the rug was being yanked out from under me and all I could think was, ‘Not again.’ But it wasn’t surprising—it felt… inevitable. Like I’d been waiting for it.”

She sits beside him, rests her hand on his thigh. He’s tense beneath her fingers.

“If something happens to this kid,” he says, quiet. “If—if something goes wrong, I don’t think I’m coming back from that.”

This is how they balance one another. When everything is going to hell, Frank is a force of nature. He is unconquerable, a creature of determination and fury. But afterward, that’s when his edges begin to fray. When he has time to recover, to consider—that’s when the fear really sets in.

Karen can function in conflict; she prides herself on doing it rather well. But she’s always been better in the quiet moments, when things are calm and she can lay out her plans in relative peace. Then, she is the unstoppable one.

She should have known this was coming. Her thumb strokes back and forth along his thigh, and his hand covers hers.

“We’re going to be okay,” she says. “You, me, and the avocado.”

He scoffs quietly.

“We _are_ ,” says Karen.

“Because the world is safe?” says Frank, voice sharp. “Because things are fair? Nothing about this goddamn world is fair. If it were—” His voice strangles out, and he presses a hand to his eyes.

She understands, even if he doesn’t say it aloud. If life were fair, they never would have met. Frank’s kids would be teenagers now, and he’d be working some nine-to-five job in the suburbs of New York and kissing his wife awake every morning.

“I have to believe we’re going to be okay,” says Karen. “Because if I don’t, then I’m never going to get out of bed in the morning and I don’t think I’d be a very good parent. And yeah, maybe something will happen. Maybe everything will go to shit—but it might not. And I’m going to believe in the latter, because honestly it’s the only thing I can do.”

“Faith?” He says the word a little incredulously, but there’s a vein of envy running through it.

“It isn’t so much faith as…” She searches for the right way to say it. “After everything we’ve survived—I think we can handle this. We’ve got this. I don’t think having a family could be any scarier than being locked in a freezer with a live grenade.” She gently takes him by the chin so she can kiss him. There’s a bit of tension to it, and she can tell his fear hasn’t left him, not entirely. Perhaps it never will. “We’re going to be okay,” she murmurs against his mouth. “And I know that because I trust you. Because you’re going to be the best damn father this kid could have.”

He kisses her back. There are a few moments of quiet, of peace.

“And because I love you,” she adds, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you checking the cost of bulletproof windows on our laptop yesterday.”

His face goes carefully flat. “It would be a simple installation job.”

“Our landlord might have something to say about that.”

“I’ll just tell her we need new windows.”

“Frank.” She laughs quietly. “We’re not going to raise this kid to be afraid of the world, okay?”

“Okay.” Frank exhales hard. “Yeah, okay. I get that.” His mouth presses tight. “But if anyone ever hurts her, I reserve the right to snap their neck.”

“Get in line,” Karen replies.

* * *

Karen gives birth at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday.

It isn’t easy—doing this without drugs is a decision she made when she wasn’t in pain, and Present Karen kind of wants to murder Past Karen for choosing this. She ends up gripping Frank’s hand so hard that she breaks the skin of his palm. The midwife is confident, which makes Karen feel better because she sure as hell isn’t.

It feels like an eternity, but when she checks later, she is only in labor for about seven hours.

And when it’s over, the midwife holds a bloodied, squirmy mess.

“Tell me this isn’t exactly like Alien,” Karen says hoarsely, and Frank laughs, looking relieved. The midwife looks a little confused, but she hands the infant over to Frank. Frank takes her with care, cradling her in the crook of his arm with a practiced ease.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says. His voice is both rough and soft at the same time. He gazes down at the infant with a kind of incredulous wonder, then he steps around the bed, bringing her to Karen. She holds out her arms.

She’s small. Her hair is perhaps one or two shades lighter than Frank’s. Those blue eyes, though, those are all Karen’s. The baby sobs, squirming a little, and Karen holds her close. Skin to skin contact is supposed to be important, according to every baby book she read. Sure enough, the baby begins to quiet—or maybe she’s just exhausted. Karen knows how she feels. Even so, she regards her daughter with wonder.

Karen loves her in a way she didn’t think possible. Even the word ‘love’ feels too weak to convey her emotions. This little girl is _everything_. She is perfect—from her wrinkled fingers to her slightly unfocused eyes. “Hey,” Karen whispers, voice choked up. “Nice to finally meet you.”

The midwife bustles around the bed, helping clean things up. “Do you have a name? You’ll need one to file for a birth certificate. Which you should do sooner rather than later.”

Karen shrugs. Names are one thing they haven’t discussed—it felt too much like tempting fate. The baby has been Avocado for months.

“What about after a grandparent? Or you could always name her after the person who introduced you,” says the midwife, before leaving the room to wash her hands.

Karen looks at Frank. He is making a face that looks like half-horror, half-grimace. She breaks into a startled laugh.

“We are not naming her Grotto,” he says.

“Eliot isn’t bad, though,” she says. “We could call her Ellie.”

“Still the name of an Irish hitman.”

“Well, I’m not naming her after my grandmother or my mom,” says Karen. “They both hated their names and they’d hate me for passing them on. What about your mom?”

“Louisa?” he says dryly.

This time, it’s Karen that makes the face. “All right, no grandparent names.”

“We’ll figure it out later,” says Frank. His face softens when he looks at the baby. “We’ve got time.”

* * *

Once everything is cleaned up and the midwife is making tea, Karen uses the bathroom while Frank holds the baby.

Frank never expected to do this again: to have a tiny life in his arms. He forgot how small newborns are. He holds her carefully, one palm beneath her head. She has fallen asleep and he marvels at the sweep of her eyelashes, her tiny little fingers and the scrunch of her nose. He sways gently in place, keeping one eye on Karen as she emerges from the bathroom. She looks pale. She’s still in pain, and from what he remembers of Lisa’s birth, there’ll be bleeding for some weeks to come. It’s no easy thing, bringing new life into the world.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Like someone rearranged my insides.” She shifts on the bed. “How’s she doing?”

“Sleeping.”

She holds out her arms and he carefully passes over the small bundle. Karen regards the baby with wearied wonder, as if all the good things in the world have been condensed down to the life in her arms. Frank knows how she feels.

“She’s so quiet,” Karen murmurs, stroking the baby’s cheek. “I thought babies were louder than this.”

“Newborns are quiet,” he replies. “Give her a few days, and she’ll be crying up a storm.”

She laughs, then looks up at him. “How are _you_ feeling?” she asks.

He shifts a little on his feet. Everything is a little surreal; it hasn’t sunk in yet. This life in Karen’s arms looks so terribly fragile, and it kindles all of his old fears to life—of bullet casings and blood, and how easily this could all vanish in a heartbeat. He wants this life—and he’s terrified to have it.

“Scared shitless,” he says, honestly.

The corners of her mouth twitch. “Same. Some pair we make.” Cradling the baby with one arm, she holds out the other to him. He takes her hand and squeezes. “I love you,” she says. “And thank you for not complaining when I strangled the life out of your hand.”

He leans down, kisses the crown of her head.

The baby wakes at that moment, squirming and letting out a grumbling little cry.

“Hey, hey,” Karen says, looking a little panicked. “Okay—shit. What do I do?”

The midwife comes back into the room. “Ah, someone’s hungry. All right, let’s talk latching on.”

Frank quietly excuses himself to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. For a few moments, he stands at the sink, just gazing out the window. It’s all suddenly real. His breathing quickens, and he tries to think, to do something.

Coffee. He finds himself looking at a bag of coffee beans. Karen would probably kill for a cup.

He fills the kettle and flicks it to life. With little else to do, he opens one of the kitchen drawers. Taped to the bottom are a few burner phones. He needs to hear a friendly voice. He activates one and calls Curtis.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Curt sounds relieved. “Good to hear your voice, man. Been a few weeks.”

“Been a busy few weeks,” Frank says.

“How is everything?” asks Curt.

Frank gazes out the window, smiling a little. “Everything is six pounds, three ounces. She’s got her mom’s eyes.”

Curt’s voice warms. “Congratulations, man. You gonna name her Curtis?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“How’s mom?” They both avoid using certain names—and Frank knows it’s probably just paranoia on both their parts, but better safe than sorry.

“Exhausted.”

“Are you?”

Frank considers his answer. He’s happy—and overwhelmed, terrified, and desperate. There’s another life depending on him… and he isn’t sure he’s up to the job.

“Curt, what if I can’t do this?” he says, very softly. “What if I just—what if I hurt this kid by accident, what if they’d be better off without me? What if I’m just too goddamned hollowed out to be what they need?”

“Bullshit,” says Curtis. “You never stopped caring, even when you wore that damned skull. You showed it in a rather fucked up way, but you were never hollowed out, not like some guys. As for whether they’d be better off without you—what are you doing right now?”

“Making coffee.”

“You need to cut back.”

“It’s for her,” he says. “She hasn’t had a real cup in months. Figured it would probably be the first thing she’d want.”

Curtis laughs. “Yeah, you’re a menace. Absolutely terrifying. Making coffee for the woman you love. She should get out now while she still can.”

“Curt.”

“You two are solid,” Curt says. “Trust me. And as for the kid, you do the best you can. It’s all any of us can do.”

Frank breathes a little easier. “Thanks, Curtis.”

“Anytime, man.”

The kettle comes to a boil. Frank watches it bubble as it automatically clicks off. “Listen. I was gonna ask you—well, we talked it over. We were kind of hoping you’d agree to be the kid’s godfather.”

There’s an intake of breath on the other end of the line. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” Frank leans against the counter. “I know it’s long distance, and we probably won’t be able to visit for a few years. But—if something happens to us, Curt, there’s no else I’d trust more with my kid than you.”

Bill was Lisa and Frankie’s godfather. Frank always thought that if he never came home, Bill would make sure his family would be all right—and hell, if Frank had died in Kandahar, maybe Bill would have. If Bill’s higher-ups hadn’t chosen to pull the trigger on Frank, maybe the other man would have done his best. Or maybe he wouldn’t have.

Frank doesn’t know—and he tries not to think about it. It hurts too much.

When he and Karen talked this over, the debate came down to Nelson or Curtis, and they landed on the side of Curt. Mostly because if something happens to both Karen and Frank, it’ll mean that things are well and truly fucked, and their kid will need someone who can protect her. Nelson might be a great parent, but so will Curt—and Curt knows his way around a gun.

And Frank trusts him.

“So what’d you think?” asks Frank.

Curt says, “I—if you’re sure. Of course. I’d be honored.”

“Thanks,” says Frank. “I mean it. Thank you.” He takes a breath. “And how are you doing? How’s the old town?”

“Oh, you know. I’m living that insurance-selling lifestyle.” Curtis laughs. He talks a little about his girlfriend, about work, and it’s nice. It feels like they could be sitting across from one another at a bar, back in the old days.

“Hey, send me pictures of the baby,” says Curtis. “I keep picturing an actual avocado.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Frank answers, smiling. When he clicks the phone shut, it feels as though he’s set down a heavy weight.

He returns to the bedroom to find the midwife quietly gathering up her things; Karen appears to be dozing on the bed, the baby sprawled across her chest.

“Everything all right?” Frank asks quietly.

The midwife nods. “Everything looks good. I’ve left more instructions in the folder on the table, but one of my clients just unexpectedly went into labor, so I should head out. I’ll check back in tomorrow, okay?”

He sees her out, thanking her again.

“You’ll get my invoice in the mail,” she replies, with a grin, and walks down to her truck. Frank shuts and locks the door, then returns to the bedroom. He sets the coffee on the bedside table, and the smell rouses Karen.

“Hey,” she says, sleepily. “Is that…?”

He nods at the coffee. “All yours.”

Karen picks up the cup and takes a sip, moaning with pleasure. “Oh. Oh, that chicory stuff doesn’t even compare.”

Frank laughs. He shoves a pillow behind his back and sits beside her, running his fingers along the baby’s arm. It seems natural to remain quiet, to watch her. “We did it,” Karen finally says.

Frank shakes his head. “This one’s on you. My contribution lasted about ten minutes.”

She snorts. “Give yourself some credit. It was more like twenty. But seriously.” She reaches for him, touches his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Wouldn’t have.”

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve her unwavering trust in him.

Karen runs her fingers over the baby’s wispy dark hair. “I’m still so used to thinking of her as Avocado.” She looks up at him. “What do you think of the name Ava?”

“Ava,” he repeats, testing it out. “Are we really going to name our daughter after a vegetable?”

“Technically, it’s a fruit.” She meets his eyes. “And you don’t like the name?”

“Never said that.” He brushes the baby’s cheek with his thumb. “Ava. Ava Conway, if we’re going with my fake last name. Sounds a bit old-fashioned. I like it.”

“You would,” Karen replies, smiling.

“What? You want her to have your fake last name?”

“My fake last name,” says Karen, “is your real last name, which we should probably avoid giving her, just to be safe.”

A twinge of regret goes through him. Part of him will always hate the deception, the way they’ve cobbled together identities out of resurrected social security numbers and fake passports. Karen and this kid deserve something real.

“Ava Franklin Conway,” says Karen thoughtfully, and Frank snorts.

“You want to name her after me or my former lawyer?” he says dryly. “And what kind of middle name is that, anyways?”

“I promised Foggy I’d name my kid after him,” she says, with an impish little smile. “It was a joke, of course, but… I’d like her to have part of your name. And besides, it sounds cute.”

“I’m not going to argue,” he says. “Mostly because I think I finally got some feeling back into my left hand.”

She nudges him with an elbow. The baby wakes, grumbling a little, and Karen murmurs quiet, nonsense words of comfort. The sight makes his chest ache; for a few moments, he cannot speak.

“Ava,” he says softly. “Yeah. I think that works.”

* * *

It takes a week before Karen really feels like going anywhere. She’s exhausted—partly from the birth, partly from the sleep deprivation, and partly because no one told her that breastfeeding is a lot of work. They’ve moved Ava’s crib into the main bedroom, if only for now, because it’s easier to bring her to the bed and nurse her at two in the morning that way. Frank is right about one thing: Ava is quiet for the first few days, and then she begins experimenting with how loud she can howl if food doesn’t arrive within thirty seconds of her being hungry.

“You are a teeny tiny poop monster,” Karen murmurs, hefting Ava into her arms after the third diaper change one afternoon. “How do you manage it? You’re on an all-liquid diet.”

Ava blinks at her. When she isn’t crying, she is quietly alert and _frowny_ , which is possibly the most adorable thing Karen has ever seen. “You take after your dad,” she says to Ava as she carries her into the living room.

Frank is working on dinner—something she is grateful for, because Karen doesn’t think she could manage making more than toast. “She does?” he says.

“She has your ears.”

“Poor thing,” says Frank, going back to chopping vegetables.

“I like your ears.”

“You have questionable taste.”

“I have amazing taste.” She kisses Frank on the cheek as she passes. There are clean bottles drying in the rack, thank goodness. “I was thinking maybe after dinner, we could take her for a walk?”

Frank pauses in the midst of scooping celery into a bowl. “You want to?”

“We’ve been cooped up,” she says. “We could, I don’t know. Just show her the town.”

Frank picks up another celery stalk. “Sounds good.”

After dinner, they take Ava to the beach. Karen bought a fabric sling, and it takes about an hour’s worth of online video tutorials to figure out how to tie it correctly. Frank offers to carry her, and Karen agrees—if only because the sight of him with a baby slung across his chest is fucking adorable and she wants pictures of this. Maybe she can find a way to send them to Foggy, because it would probably give him an aneurism.

They get about thirty feet from their house before Ava falls asleep, her cheek pressed to Frank’s chest. “Well, so much for showing her the sights,” says Frank, a little dryly.

“Fresh air,” says Karen, tilting her head back. “It feels nice.”

One of their neighbors—an elderly couple called the Masons, call out to them. They coo over Ava, marveling at her dark hair and rounded cheeks. “She’s beautiful,” says Mrs. Mason. She gives Karen’s hand a squeeze. “You treasure this time, you hear? It’s a gift.”

Karen smiles tiredly, but thanks the older woman. Because she may be sleep-deprived and wearing the same shirt three days in a row—but she’s grateful for all of it. The chance to have any of this—Frank, a sort of stable life, and a family—is something Karen won’t ever take for granted. She can’t, not after everything they went through to get here.

Two more neighbors call out to them, and while it’s been a long time since Karen lived in a small town, but all of it comes back to her. “I bet you anything, there’s going to be a casserole on our doorstep when we get back home,” she murmurs to Frank.

He looks baffled. Of course—he lived in New York his whole life.

She’s half-right. When they return home, it’s to Tammy from the coffeeshop standing on their doorstep, two tote bags on her shoulder. “I still have baby clothes,” she says. “I was saving them, in case my sister got pregnant—but if you want any of them…”

Frank makes coffee for all of them while Karen sorts through the clothes. There are some cute little shirts and onesies, and Karen accepts a few of them.

Within an hour, there’s the elderly lady whose porch Frank fixed. She comes bearing a bundt cake. After that, there are the two twenty-something women living together. They bring two grocery bags full of diapers. “We don’t have kids but I pretty much raised my younger siblings,” says one of them. “You always need more diapers than you think you will.” Karen invites them both in for cake.

It’s the closest thing they’ve had to a baby shower, Karen realizes, and it’s very sweet. Frank looks a little baffled by it all.

That night, as they’re getting ready for bed, Karen says, “You do realize you’re mostly the reason they all came here.”

“No, I’m not.”

She grins. “You’ve been fixing porches and sinks, helping little old ladies with their cars and tipping the baristas every time they bring you a cup of regular coffee.”

Frank looks baffled. “People pay me to fix things. And why wouldn’t I—”

“You do it because it’s the right thing to do,” she says. “In a place like New York, it goes unseen.” She winds her arms around his neck, kisses his cheek. “You’re a good man. People see that in a place like this. I haven’t really had time to make friends, not with the pregnancy and everything.”

“It’s weird,” says Frank.

“It’s small town living,” says Karen. “You’re just going to have to put up with people liking you.”

* * *

Three months after Ava is born, someone finds them.

There’s a knock at the door and Frank goes to get it. Karen is with Ava on the couch, because it’s lunchtime and hungry avocados cannot be ignored. She hears the sound of Frank answering, then a voice saying, “Castle.”

Karen goes rigid with fear, heart throbbing and body ice cold. No one has called Frank by that name in months, not since they ran.

Someone’s here—someone found them.

She and Frank talked about this once a few weeks after Ava was born.

 _Hey, anything ever happens,_ Frank said quietly. It was around two in the morning—both of them sprawled on the bed, Ava nursing for the third time that night. _Anyone ever comes for us, you take Ava and run. I’ve got a bug-out bag in the closet. There’re coordinates in there. Instructions on where to go, how long to hide._

 _And what,_ Karen said, _just leave you?_

Frank nodded. _Yeah. I’ll deal with whoever shows up. Stop them—or at least, give you enough time to get away._ He leaned forward, gaze flickering down to Ava. _You take her and you run, okay?_

 _Frank._ She sighed. _All right._

Frank blinked. _I thought there’d be a lot more arguing about this._

 _If it was just me, hell yeah I’d fight with you about this_ , she replied. _But—shit there is no good way to say this._

He leaned closer. _Just say it._

 _I’d die to keep Ava safe_ , Karen said simply. _It seems stupid to argue about you not having that right._

Now, Karen hears the voice at the front door. She rises to her feet, pulling Ava from her breast and hastily making for the closet. The car is parked on the street—Frank was going to drive to the next town over, to pick up some groceries that they can’t get in town. If Karen can get to the car, if she can sneak around back—

And then Dinah Madani walks into the living room. She tilts her head—looking at Karen with something like amusement. “Going somewhere, Ms. Page?”

Ava is crying—distressed at having her lunch abruptly cut short. For a heartbeat, Karen is still. Then Frank follows Madani and says, “It’s fine, I let her in.” Karen holds Ava a little closer, murmuring a quiet comfort.

“I can come back later,” says Madani. “I mean, as long as you weren’t planning on running.”

Frank gestures Madani to one of the living room chairs. He sits on the couch and nods at Karen. She sits beside him, Ava still tucked against her chest. “Wasn’t running from you, Madani,” says Frank.

“Running from the government is running from me,” replies Madani, but she does sit. She looks out of place in a wicker chair.

“I thought the CIA didn’t operate on US soil,” drawls Frank.

Madani gives him a flat-eyed stare. “And I thought you were retired, Frank.”

Ava lets out another sob and Karen says, “Sorry to break up this banter, but do you mind if…?” She gestures at the baby.

Madani blinks. “Oh—right. Should I go?”

“It’s fine.” Karen readjusts her shirt, situating Ava against her left breast. Ava latches on immediately and quiets, one of her tiny hands resting against Karen’s collarbone. Karen smiles down at her, fondly running a hand over Ava’s head, then she looks up. Frank and Madani are eyeing one another like stray dogs over a scrap of meat.

“CIA intel is slipping,” says Frank, crossing his arms. “Took you long enough to find us.”

“I didn’t use CIA resources to find you,” says Madani. “If I had, that would’ve left a trail.”

Frank seems to release a breath. “You’re not here on their behalf, then?”

“No,” says Madani. “I’m here because—shit.” She presses a hand to her face. “I wasn’t sure if you were alive. Accounts differed.”

“How did you find us?” asks Karen, voice tight. She needs to know if there are others following.

“Lieberman,” says Frank, with a shake of his head. “Or Curt.”

“Lieberman,” Madani confirms. “Curtis Hoyle wouldn’t give you up—but I swore to Lieberman that I was only coming to check in on you. He trusts me. Unlike some people.”

“Did you only come to check on us?” Franks says. His voice is low and steady, unthreatening. But there’s steel behind it.

“I’m not here to arrest you, Frank.” Madani glances toward Karen and Ava, then back to Frank. “Why didn’t you call me after a hospital got shot up?”

“I thought you made it pretty clear that I was on my own,” he says. “Unless I wanted to come work for you—which I didn’t.”

“We’ve pulled one another’s asses out of the fire enough times that I thought we’d built up at least a little good will,” says Madani, with an exasperated little sigh. “And blowing up a building? Really?”

“That wasn’t us,” says Karen, defensively. “That was Agent Poindexter. He—he came after me and a few former colleagues.”

“And you just had to get involved.” Madani nods at Frank.

Frank doesn’t look away. “I was already involved.”

“I can see that,” Madani says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How old is… she? He?”

Karen glances down at Ava. By now, she has finished nursing and blinks sleepily up at Karen. Karen tucks her shirt back into place, then drapes a cloth diaper over her shoulder before placing Ava gently against her, rubbing her back. By now, Karen’s learned that most burps are usually accompanied by some spillage.

“She’s three months,” says Frank. “Her name’s Ava.”

Madani’s face softens a little. Then she turns back to Frank. “Tell me what happened.”

To Karen’s surprise, Frank does. He keeps Daredevil’s identity out of it, but he relays everything from Karen being threatened by Wilson Fisk to Poindexter going after Murdock, to finally leaving New York and making their way here. Madani listens, drinks the cup of coffee Frank makes for her, and finally lets out a heavy sigh. “You can’t do things by halves, can you, Castle?”

“Listen,” says Frank, a little defensively. “Fisk and Poindexter threatened Karen, threatened my fucking kid. If you think I was just about to sit back and watch it happen—”

Madani raises a hand to quiet him. “No, no, I get that.” Her gaze slides over Karen and Ava—who is asleep by now. “You planning on staying here?”

“For now,” Karen says. “It’s—it’s not a bad place to live. Quiet.”

Madani finishes her cup and says, “I’m going to have a few strings pulled. You’ll both be declared dead, drowned in the Hudson. Then, I’m going to switch out your fingerprints again, along with those of Ms. Page. I’m assuming whatever guy you went to for your new identities borrowed some social security numbers from a dead person, right? Give them to me, and I’ll make sure they don’t show up as someone else’s. Consider it a late baby shower gift.”

Karen blinks in surprise. “Why?”

“There were a lot of people in that maternity ward,” says Madani. “A lot of people who would have died if you hadn’t stopped Poindexter. I saw some of the police interviews with the victims. There were two women in particular who insisted that you saved their lives, that everything the news was saying about you was wrong. And sometimes—sometimes doing the honorable thing matters more than doing the lawful thing.” She looks squarely at Frank. “You commit any more crimes, I’m not covering your ass. You stay out of sight and don’t make me regret this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“You want to hold her?” asks Karen.

Madani looks a little panicked. “No! I mean—no, thank you. I wasn’t ever really… not a baby person. She’s very cute, though,” she adds, as if worried she’s given offense.

Frank laughs quietly. “All those firefights, and this is what scares you, huh?”

“Firefights don’t usually include projectile vomit,” says Madani.

She stays for another few hours, talking mostly with Frank. They discuss how things are going back in New York, and Madani makes a few oblique references to things happening overseas that Karen can’t quite decipher. Frank seems to understand, though.

When Madani leaves, and the door shuts behind her, Karen says, “You trust her?”

Frank nods. “I do. She’s a good person.”

Karen sits on the couch, crossing her arms across her stomach. “So Frank Castle and Karen Page will be dead soon.”

“We’ll still have to be careful,” says Frank. “But yeah, this is good. No more manhunts, no more active investigations. We’ll still have to lay low, especially for a few years.” He gives her a steady look. “You thinking about your dad?”

Karen lets out a breath. “I—I hate that he doesn’t know. I mean, he can’t know. I wouldn’t trust him not to turn us in. But as far as he knows, he lost everyone. I wouldn’t wish that on him.” She steels herself, spine straightening. “But this family comes first. I’m not risking you or Ava, not for anyone.” She glances at Frank. “What about you?”

He lets out a rueful little breath. “I’ve died so many times that at this point, it almost feels routine.” He shakes his head. “Besides, it isn’t like I lost much.”

“Just your job, your friends, and your home,” says Karen. “Not much at all.”

“It was _our_ home,” he says. “Job was just a job. And I still talk to Curt every week, even if it isn’t in a church basement.” He leans forward a little, expression stern. “Don’t you ever feels sorry for me or try to blame yourself, you got that? I didn’t lose shit. Not compared to what I gained.”

As if on cue, there’s a sob from down the hallway.

“I’ve got her,” says Frank, rising from the couch. When he returns, Karen already has her blouse unbuttoned. Even just the sound of Ava crying is enough to make things—rather leaky. Which is weird as fuck, and one of those things no one mentioned. Frank gently hands her over and Ava paws at Karen before latching on.

“Hungry girl,” Karen murmurs. “Is it because you burped half of it up last time?”

When she glances up, she sees Frank watching them both. The look on his face is something between tender and fierce. He looks as though he would fight his way through hell, if she asked him to. And honestly, she’d bet on him in that particular scenario.

* * *

It isn’t all cuteness and joy.

Teething is a _nightmare._

Ava doesn’t stop crying for what seems like weeks on end; she thrashes people pick her up and chews on anything she can shove into her mouth. Karen barely recalls those weeks except in flashes of sensation: staying awake for days at a time, sticking teething rings in the freezer, her hair dirty and clothes a bit sour, and one of her nipples bleeds because it turns out that teething babies are actually vampires in training.

She ends up having a mini breakdown in the third week. Frank finds Karen sitting on the floor, tears running down her face as she tries to rock Ava into a nap. “Hey,” he says, kneeling beside them both. He gently lifts Ava into his arms, tucking her against his shoulder. “You go take a shower,” he says firmly. “Nap. I’ve got this.”

“Aren’t you scheduled to go look at the Mason’s car or something?” She even sounds terrible—all gummy, like she has a head cold. Their elderly neighbors have been having trouble starting their car, and Frank offered to take a look.

“I can look at a car with Ava,” says Frank. “A walk might do her some good. And besides, the Masons love her.”

Frank fares better during the Teething Wars—but she suspects it has less to do with him having kids before and more with battlefield experience. He handles it with grim-faced determination, a stony sort of stubbornness that seems to say, _I will not be outlasted by a baby._ So he sleeps less and carries Ava around the house for hours at a time because it’s the only way she’ll sleep and he shows up to jobs with bags beneath his eyes and a pacifier still jammed in his pocket.

Karen longs for a job of her own, but she can’t see how it’ll happen—or even what she could do. And besides, there’s still Ava to think about. Their small town has some moms organizing daycare amongst themselves, but Karen can’t bring herself to leave Ava there yet. So she browses online job listings for remote editorial and writing work. When things calm down, she’ll apply for something. She could write for a publication again—maybe an online magazine or newspaper—so long as they don’t require a headshot and her false name remains securely in place. Or maybe she could ghostwrite for someone.

She thinks of the future, and it makes her feel a little better.

* * *

After the worst of the teething is over, things seem to settle again. Ava grows old enough to babble—and laugh, which is the sweetest thing Karen has ever heard. Karen will blow raspberries against Ava’s cheeks and belly, and Ava will laugh and laugh and laugh, kicking her tiny legs in glee. The strangest things will set her off: a stuffed toy frog, the sight of seagulls, and the sound of Frank stubbing his toe.

“She has a dark sense of humor already,” says Frank, picking her up. “Isn’t that right?”

Ava squeals happily and fists her fingers in his shirt.

Of course, her first word is “Dada.”

Well, actually it’s “dah” but Karen figures it’s close enough. Ava is in Frank’s lap while he reads a book—one hand on her belly, the other holding a Jack London novel. He bounces Ava absentmindedly, and she giggles. Karen is on her laptop, clicking away, when Ava says “Dah.” It sounds more distinct than her usual babble—one word, rather than twenty sounds squished together.

Frank goes very still.

Karen stands up. “Did she just…?”

“Dada,” Ava says happily.

Frank puts the book down, then lifts Ava into his arms. She laughs, reaching for Frank’s beard. She’s at the age when she’s grabbing for everything. She’ll reach for Frank’s beard, for Karen’s hair, for spoons, for her teething ring, and one memorable time, for a very large spider crawling along the wall. (Karen let out a choked shriek, seized Ava, and kicked at the arachnid until it was twitching on the floor. Frank came barreling out of the shower—not even wearing a towel, a handgun in his palm.

“Can you imagine if any of our neighbors were walking by?” Karen said, when it was over and Ava was down for a nap. She couldn’t help but laugh ruefully about the whole thing. “The hot handyman, packing heat. In both senses.”

Frank snorted.)

“She said ‘Dada,’” says Karen.

Frank shakes his head. “It’s probably just a fluke. Her figuring out how sounds work.”

“Dahdahdah,” says Ava.

“Okay, now she’s experimenting with sounds,” says Karen. “And probably seeing how worked up she can get us if she keeps saying it.” She reaches for Ava and Frank passes her over. She kisses Ava’s cheek. “Did you say ‘Dada?’ You totally said it.” Ava waves her chubby little arms in the air, overjoyed with all of the attention. “Come on, say it again. Dada.”

Ava laughs and lets loose a long string of incomprehensible babble.

“All right, so we’ll work on it,” Karen replies.

Frank shakes his head, amused. “Still think it was a fluke.”

That night, Karen is brushing her teeth as she listens to Frank put Ava in her crib. “Come on, you,” he’s saying. “Time to sleep. And no more trying to stage a jailbreak at three in the morning, all right? Let’s see if we can try for a solid seven hours.”

“Dada,” Ava replies.

Karen stops brushing her teeth, so she hears Frank say, voice suddenly a little hoarse, “That’s right, sweetheart. It’s Dada. I’ve got you.”

When Frank comes into the bedroom, he looks more than a little wrecked. She knows this isn’t easy for him—with every moment of joy, there’s an echo of pain. Of what could have been, rather than what is. She sits behind him, rests her cheek between his shoulder blades. His heartbeat is steady against her ear. Frank’s fingers reach back, curl around her thigh and hold on. A silent acknowledgement that, yes, this hurts—but there’s no other place he would rather be.

“You’re her favorite,” Karen murmurs.

Frank snorts. “Only when she isn’t hungry.”

“I can live with that.”

* * *

Karen ends up getting a job writing ghostwriting articles for a non-profit environmental company based in Seattle.

It isn’t what she’s used to—there’s no hunting down criminals or working with sources or tracking down the truth. Half the time, she’s working at the kitchen table, a chipped mug at her elbow and Ava either napping or playing in the living room. Frank keeps up with his handyman routine, fixing the occasional sink and helping with house repairs. It isn’t full-time, and it allows for him to take over much of Ava’s care once she’s weaned.

He’s good with her. Karen always knew he would be, but there’s something in seeing it. Karen will walk into the kitchen to see him mashing up sweet potatoes or taking a nap on the couch, Ava sprawled across his chest. It’s heartbreakingly sweet.

He’s overprotective sometimes, and often hyper-alert when they’re out and about. One time, when Ava is just over a year old, Karen and Frank walk down to one of the smaller parks. Karen puts Ava in one of those toddler swings. Ava loves it, giggling and kicking her chubby little legs. When Karen looks up, Frank is a few feet away, his posture stiff. He’s watching two men. They’re probably college-aged, and one of them furtively passes over a paper bag.

Karen knows a drug deal when she sees one. She’s been involved in enough that she recognizes the too-casual slip of the bills from hand to hand, the way they keep eyeing their surroundings.

A muscle twitches in Frank’s cheek. He’s moving before Karen can reach out to stop him, his stride longer than hers. His shoulders are rigid, hands carefully at his sides. He isn’t armed, but he moves like is—and the two college boys notice him immediately. One of them skitters back, while the other holds his ground.

“You don’t do that here,” Frank says, and that voice—that is all Punisher. “You want to do that shit, fine—but don’t bring it near these kids again, got it?”

“And what if we do?” says the second young man brazenly. The other looks like he’s ready to piss himself—which means he’s definitely the smarter of the two. “Public space and all.”

Some people have survival instincts. Others don’t.

Karen scoops Ava into her arms, holding her close. If something happens, she wants to be ready to move. Ava lets out a shriek of protest, grabbing for the chain and crying when Karen steps away. The sound draws the gazes of the two young men. The stupider one gives Karen a very deliberate once-over, smirking. “Maybe we like the view here.”

“You don’t look at them,” Frank says, voice low. “Look at me, asshole.”

The other man draws himself up. He’s a little taller than Frank and burly around the shoulders. Maybe he played football in high school.

“Or what?” he says, and begins to step toward Karen. It’s a taunt—Karen knows it’s just a stupid taunt, but Frank moves faster than her eye can follow. One moment, the young man is in motion and the next he’s on the ground. The other young man runs away so fast that Karen is almost surprised there aren’t marks on the grass.

“No,” says Karen. She doesn’t say Frank’s name aloud, not now. Not when he is so very much the Punisher. “Hey—he’s just a stupid kid.”

The young man wheezes.

Frank grabs him by the collar, heaves him upright, then shoves him. The young man staggers backward, still trying to catch his breath.

“Get out of here.” Frank says the words in barely a whisper—and it’s far more terrifying than a shout. “I see you here again, you won’t walk away.” The young man scrambles, shooting a glance over his shoulder as he rushes out of the park and down the street. Karen raises her phone and snaps a picture of him, just in case.

Coffee Shop Tammy walks toward them. Her kids are playing on the see-saws, utterly unaware of the little drama that just played out. “Hey, you okay?”

Karen nods, and Frank doesn’t answer.

“Looks like school’s out,” says Tammy, with irritation. “College kids back for the summer. They’re worse than tourists. I’ll talk to Joseph—his nephew works for the sheriff. Tell him the kids are dealing near the park again. Apparently summer jobs aren’t fashionable anymore.” She shakes her head in disgust and Karen forces a laugh.

Frank keeps watching the place where those two young men vanished, and Karen knows his every nerve is staining, eyes darting back and forth, finger beating an uneven rhythm against his thigh.

“Come on, let’s go home,” she says. Ava makes an attempt to reach for the swing as they pass, but Karen takes her hand and kisses her tiny fist, blowing a raspberry against her wrist. Ava laughs, then buries her face against Karen’s shoulder, fingers knotting in her shirt. Karen doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to being so implicitly trusted.

They walk down the street; it rained yesterday and the dampness lingers in the soil and the air. Karen glances at Frank, sees his expression. All of the anger is gone—replaced with something hollow. He is someplace else. Another life, another park. “Hey,” she says, stepping in front of him. His gaze finally meets hers. She reaches for him with her free arm, touching his chest. “Would you mind taking Ava? My elbow isn’t feeling great.”

“Yeah.” His voice is a little rusty. He pulls Ava into his arms, and she doesn’t even wake up. He pulls her close, kisses the crown of her head. Something in his posture seems to relax; he looks better with the baby in his arms. Good—it’s what Karen was hoping for. And besides, it wasn’t a lie. Her right elbow aches.

When they return home, Frank puts Ava to bed. She drops right off, dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks. Karen takes him by the hand and leads him out, because she knows if she doesn’t, he’ll linger there. He’ll just watch Ava like he’s afraid to look away. As if the moment his gaze wanders, something will happen.

It won’t. Karen forces the possibility from her mind; she has to, in order to function. They’re safe here, as safe as normal people ever can be. So she leads Frank into their bedroom and gets him to sit down. “How’s your arm?” he asks quietly.

It won’t ever be as it once was; some injuries never quite heal.

She runs her fingers through his hair. It needs a trim, unless he is aiming for that man bun. “I’ll survive.”

He catches her around the waist and draws her closer. She steps into the space between his thighs, rests her cheek against his hair. She wraps both arms around him and holds on. For a few moments, he stays quiet. Then he says, “I wanted to kill them both.”

“I know.” Her fingers tighten on him.

The truth is, they’ve been doing well—all things considered. Frank has stopped carrying a gun everywhere; Karen has managed to go a full week without glancing over her shoulder. They both still have nightmares, but it’s a rarer occurrence, rather than the norm. Of course, that could be because their sleeping habits are still ridiculously sketchy, thanks to Ava.

“Two asshole college students,” he says. “He was probably just selling pills. And I wanted to break his goddamn neck. For doing it there, for—” He exhales hard through his nose. “Should’ve just let it go. Should’ve walked away, but—”

“You should have.” She strokes the hair at the nape of his neck. “But I get it. I do. Just—next time, we let Tammy call the cops.”

“Yeah.” She kisses his hair. He smells like the outdoors, like greenery and rain. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, smiling. “Ava will probably be down for an hour. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“We could take a nap, too?” he says dryly.

“That, or something else,” she murmurs.

His head tilts up and he captures her mouth in a sweet, intense kiss. She groans into it, and his hands slide up her back. He pulls her into his lap, and there isn’t much talking after that.

* * *

Ava's nap must work too well—because that night, she won’t sleep.

Karen wakes for the fourth time, groans, and says, “I just fed her. Her diaper is clean. Why…?”

Frank is the one to get up and walk across the hallway into the baby room. He comes back, Ava tucked against his shoulder. She is squirming, tiny legs and arms thrashing with frustration. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, big hand cradled around Ava’s head. He sways back and forth. “You’re going to be a night owl aren’t you? Shh, baby girl. Go to sleep.” Her cries stutter—it’s like hearing a record skip. She lets out another whimper, then quiets.

“Okay, screw glowing hands and super strength,” says Karen. “I want that superpower.”

“She’s just lonely, I think.” Frank gets back into bed, settling Ava between them. Karen strokes her daughter’s palm and Ava’s fingers reflexively close around a finger. Her eyelids flutter, and she falls asleep swiftly, hand still clutching Karen’s finger. Karen kisses Ava’s tiny little fist, then her forehead. Even if she’s exhausted and she hasn’t shaved her legs in who knows how long—none of it matters. Not with her daughter asleep beside her. It’s moments like these she’s sure she made the right choice—all of the right choices. They brought her here, to this moment.

She looks up, sees Frank watching her. “What?” she says.

“Marry me,” he says.

She sits up, and Ava’s hand slips away. Luckily, now that she’s asleep, the baby seems determined to remain that way. “Now?”

He breaks into a small laugh, ducking his head, then meets her eyes. He looks almost… hesitant. “When you’re ready. I mean—I know it’s not what it should be. This—this isn’t how I would have wanted things. You’ll be trading your fake last name to another fake last name. And if you don’t want to—it wouldn’t change anything.”

Karen glances down at Ava. “If you’re asking me—just because you feel like you have to, because we have Ava—”

“No,” he says, startled. “No—‘course not.” He gently takes her by the chin, eyes intent on hers. “You’re family, you got that? I didn’t want there to be any doubt. You know me—traditional kind of guy.”

Karen snorts. “Yeah because we’ve been nothing but traditional. Girl meets boy when boy shoots up a hospital, gunning for an Irish hitman. Girl ends up working boy’s court case. They do all sorts of illegal things to find the truth.”

“I brought you flowers afterward.”

“As a covert communication method.” She smiles. “I’m not sure that counts.”

Frank frowns in thought. “We didn’t really date, did we?”

“We kind of skipped that part. Went straight from ‘mortal peril’ to ‘moving in.’” She turns her face into his palm, kisses the pulse at his wrist. “And if we did get married, it means we’d never have to testify against one another in court.”

He gives her a flat look. “You know how to ruin a moment, Page.”

“It’s possible I looked into this,” she says, with a grin. She adds, with more heartfelt emotion, “Frank. Of course I’ll marry you. Everything that’s happened—I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“Oh,” he says. Then, more softly, “You know how much I love you, right?”

“I always suspected,” she says, smiling. 

Carefully, he angles himself around the sleeping Ava, cupping Karen’s cheek and kissing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! I got behind in replying to comments so I’ll try to catch up soon - just know I love you all.


	16. Closing

Nearly four years after Karen Page and Frank Castle are officially declared dead, Curtis Hoyle has houseguests.

They arrive at night, having taken a train across the country. The daughter is worn out by the travel; she’s asleep in her father’s arms. The woman has blonde hair and the man a well-trimmed beard. Both wear simple wedding bands and are dressed in jeans and well-worn jackets. No one gives them a second glance.

“So this is Ava,” says Curtis, after he’s clasped Frank’s free hand. Ava is exhausted, one cheek smashed up against Frank’s shoulder, fingers hooked into his jacket. She lifts her head wearily from Frank’s shoulder and blinks at Curtis.

“Sweetie, this is your godfather, Curtis,” says Karen, smoothing a hand over Ava’s hair.

Ava blinks again. “Hi,” she says, and then falls back asleep in a matter of moments.

“Long trip,” Karen says, with a small laugh.

They’re shown into the guest room, where there’s a love seat big enough for Ava to sleep on, and a double bed for Frank and Karen. Karen is glad for it—the cots in their sleeper car weren’t exactly comfortable, and Ava insisted on trying to climb into bed with her. The love seat is made up and Frank carefully settles Ava in it, drawing the blankets across her.

“You go catch up with Curtis,” says Karen, picking up her suitcase and unzipping it. Her pajamas are crammed into one of the corner pockets. “I’m going to pass out.”

“You sure?” asks Frank.

She gives him a smile. “Go on.”

Frank kisses her cheek and quietly shuts the door behind him.

Ava is utterly dead to the world, so Karen ventures into the bathroom to wash her face and change into pajamas. She can hear Frank and Curt’s low voices from the living room, and she’s glad for it. While they’ve kept in touch with email and phone calls, it isn’t the same. She knows—she’s looking forward to meeting a few people for dinner tomorrow.

Karen twitches the curtains aside for a moment and gazes out across the city skyline. It feels strange to be here, like a ghost haunting a house it once abandoned. It’s been years—and yet, it all looks the same. She gets into bed and is asleep within moments, only waking briefly an hour or so later when Frank slips in beside her. She turns into his chest, feels one of his arms settle around her, and then she’s asleep again.

They eat breakfast with Curt; his girlfriend is out of town, and Karen knows this is part of the reason he invited them for this specific weekend. He doesn’t want to place her in the awkward position of knowing things that could be dangerous. He’s helping out with the homeless today, but tomorrow he plans to take Ava to the zoo. Ava is bouncing up and down in her seat the prospect of seeing tropical birds. “She’s been on a bird thing,” says Karen, helping carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen. “Last few months, she’s been trying to get the seagulls to come close enough to make friends. All they do is shriek and follow her around, now that they know she’ll feed them.”

Curtis laughs. “Could be worse. She could be into—I don’t know. Spiders or something.”

“Clearly you’ve never had to clean seagull crap off of your car.”

After breakfast, they take Ava around the city. She’s a little intimidated by all of it, Karen can tell. Going from their small town to New York City is quite the change of scenery. But when they get pizza from a street vendor, she seems far more amenable to the city. Particularly when she realizes that there are pigeons she can feed. They end up in one of the smaller parks, sitting at a bench while Ava tries get a pigeon to land on her hand.

“Don’t pigeons carry plague?” says Karen, frowning. They also bought coffees, and she’s on the last few sips of hers.

“No, that’s squirrels.” Frank’s arm is draped around the back of the bench, his fingers stroking absentmindedly along her shoulder.

One of the pigeons gets within a few feet of Ava, but then flaps away when Ava thrusts out a piece of crust. Another, more brave bird, ends up taking it right out of her fingers. “Did you see?” says Ava, utterly delighted. “Mama, Daddy, did you see?”

“We saw,” says Frank, smiling. “Don’t try to pick one up, okay?” In an undertone he says, “She’s going to be a veterinarian.”

“Or go into falconry,” says Karen, with a laugh.

“Is that still a thing?”

“Old stuff is fashionable again.”

“Well, then I guess I should come back into style pretty soon.”

She snorts and touches the corner of his mouth. His beard does have a few streaks of gray in it and she’s noticed lines around her eyes, but she likes them. It’s a reminder that they’re both alive to get older. “Oh, yeah. You’re a feeble old man.” She nudges his shoulder; it’s still hard with muscle. Even if they’re far away from any fighting, he keeps fit more out of habit than anything else.

“I’ll show you feeble,” he says, and kisses her breathless. It lasts for only a few moments—then Ava is in front of them, asking if there’s more pizza.

Karen hands over part of her crust, and Ava returns to feeding the pigeons. When she’s finished, they leave the park and wander through Hell’s Kitchen. Ava is between them, holding onto both Karen and Frank’s hands.

It’s strange. Familiar in a way that makes Karen’s eyes ache, and just changed enough to make her feel like a stranger. They pass by Josie’s and it looks the same as ever. Her old apartment building—the one that was attacked by the Blacksmith—has been torn down and new condos built in its place. “Good riddance,” Frank mutters, when he sees it. “That place was a shithole.”

Karen lets out a soft laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“The bullet holes were an improvement.”

“I love how that’s the thing you remember about that night—how bad my apartment was, not me pointing a…” She considers the toddler at her side, then adjusts her word choice. “Three-eighty at you.”

Of course, there’s only one word that Ava picks up on.

“What’s a shithole?” asks Ava, and of course even though she still has trouble with some words, she manages to pronounce the profanity _perfectly._

“You’re fielding this one,” Karen says, with a sidelong look at Frank.

Frank considers his answer. “It’s—a bad place to live. And it’s a grown-up word, so don’t use it.”

Ava frowns at him. “Why?”

When dinner time rolls around, they meet up with Foggy and Marci—and Franklin Junior. He’s a little over one now, and he has a thick patch of blonde hair and is asleep in a designer stroller. Or at least, Karen thinks it has to be designer, because Marci’s pushing it. “Look at him,” Karen says, squatting beside the stroller. “He’s so big! You need to send more photos.”

Marci gives her a one-armed hug. “Don’t encourage Foggy. I just deleted like, two thousand photos off of our online storage because we don’t need that many pictures of our kid drooling, right, Foggy Bear?”

Frank grins like he’s been given the greatest of gifts. “Foggy Bear?”

“Not a word,” says Foggy, pointing a finger at him. “Or I’ll find out what embarrassing nicknames Karen has for you.”

“That would be none, actually,” says Karen.

“So this is the infamous Avocado,” says Foggy. Ava hides behind one of Frank’s legs, clinging to his knee, full of four-year-old shyness.

“My name isn’t Avocado,” says Ava.

“Just what we used to call you, sweetheart,” says Frank, ruffling her hair. She looks up at him, to get the okay. “He’s a friend,” says Frank. “You can say hi.”

Foggy beams. “Look, you even admitted it. Aloud, and everything.”

Ava holds out one tiny hand. “I’m Ava Franklin Conway.” She pronounces her full name carefully, and Karen can’t help but grin when Foggy looks like he’s been hit with a car.

“I’m your Uncle Foggy,” he says, sounding suddenly a little choked up. He glances at Karen and says, “Seriously?”

“I mean, I did promise to name her after you,” she says, flashing a grin. She never did tell him in any of her emails—because she wanted to see his face. And the wait was entirely worth it.

“Do you like pigeons?” asks Ava.

Foggy considers the question. “So long as they’re not on my car, sure.”

Ava nods, as if this is the deciding factor on whether they’re going to be friends or not. Then she wanders over to the stroller to look at Franklin Junior.

“She’s adorable,” Foggy says to Frank. “And I’m questioning how she’s your kid.”

“I’ve been told she has my ears,” says Frank, not missing a beat.

“This is sickeningly sweet, but our reservation is for five minutes ago, so we should probably get moving,” says Marci.

Matt meets them at the restaurant just as menus are being passed around. He looks good—in a crisp suit jacket and hair a little shorter than she remembers. Karen hugs him, and he squats down in front of Ava to introduce himself.

They end up dining outdoors, in the summer breeze, listening to the sounds of traffic and the city. They talk about how Nelson & Murdock is faring, as well as Marci’s most recent promotion at work. Matt alludes quietly to some business with the other vigilantes of the city, but only in half-references and significant glances. There was apparently some kind of conflict a few months back—a corporation using illegal means to create super-powered individuals, not unlike Poindexter. Karen feels a twinge of… exclusion upon hearing the scant details that Matt offers up. She used to be part of this, fighting the good fight. Now, she’s sidelined. But—the thing is, people get hurt in fights. And Karen has far too much to lose to throw herself into such a war again. She glances at Frank; he is listening to Foggy animatedly talk about his last case. Ava is on her best behavior, a little intimidated by all of the adult company. When she begins to fidget, Karen digs out a small coloring book and crayons for her.

“We’ve been working on this one case,” says Foggy, “with an apartment building that burned down. Landlord tried to pin it on one of the tenants, but the guy swears he didn’t leave anything on. We did some digging and—bam, guess what we found out?”

“Landlord wasn’t adhering to fire codes?” asks Karen, smiling. She remembers this—the hunt for truth, the courtroom battles. It makes her a bit nostalgic.

“Got it in one,” says Foggy. “Place was a mess, but at least we managed to make sure our client could afford another place to live.”

Ava looks up from her coloring book. “Was it a shithole?”

Karen snorts into her chicken.

“Okay,” says Foggy, glancing at Frank. “Now I can see the family resemblance.”

They linger a little over glasses of wine and small slices of a dark chocolate cake. Ava falls asleep in Frank’s lap, worn out by the day’s excitement. When they’re finished, they say their goodbyes on the sidewalk out front. Karen has plans to meet up with Foggy and Matt before she leaves New York, but she probably won’t see Marci or Franklin Junior again. At least, not during this trip.

Frank stands a few feet away, Ava still asleep in his arms. She’s gotten a little big for Karen to carry her around, but he still manages it. Her heart thumps at the sight.

“Hey,” says Matt, touching Karen’s elbow. His expression is soft. “I’m glad things worked out,” he says quietly. “I was worried when you and Frank left New York. But you—you seem happy.”

“I am,” she says.

“You two ever need anything, you know you can call me,” says Matt, and gives her one last hug.

He holds up a hand in farewell to Frank, who says, “See you around, Red,” like it’s an inside joke.

* * *

The next day, Curtis takes Ava to the zoo. She chats excitedly about parrots and Curtis promises not to let her out of his sight. “We’re having dinner with the Liebermans tonight,” says Frank, “so don’t give her too much sugar. And if she tries to kidnap a parrot—”

“I’ll keep her from trying to pull off a crime most fowl,” replies Curt, with a grin.

Karen is glad that Curt is willing to take Ava for a few hours. There is one place Frank and Karen need to visit, and Ava is still too young.

Ava doesn’t know that their last name wasn’t always Conway. She doesn’t know she has two deceased half-siblings, that her father was the boogeyman that haunted New York’s streets a few years back. There are decisions to be made about what they will and will not tell her. Part of Karen wants to tell her nothing—to let the Punisher drown in the Hudson and stay beneath the waters. It isn’t that she’s ashamed of Frank, but Karen doesn’t want anything to change. Ava is happy and while Karen knows that someday she’ll have to learn the dangers of the world, she wants to put that off as long as she can.

Someday—someday they’ll probably have to tell her. Maybe when she’s eighteen.

Or maybe never. They haven’t decided which.

Frank and Karen take a cab to the cemetery. They pick up a bouquet of peonies on the way. It’s a sunny day, a little humid, and Karen finds herself shrugging out of her light jacket. Frank walks unerringly through the cemetery, sure of his path, and at first Karen stays a few steps behind. If he desires privacy, she doesn’t want to intrude. But his hand finds hers, and he leads her to the right graves.

Someone has been keeping the headstones swept free of leaves and cut grass. They appear a little more weather-worn by wind and time. Frank runs a hand over Maria’s name, then presses a kiss to the headstone with Lisa and Frankie’s names.

Karen knows what it is to lose family; she lost her mother and Kevin. But the mere thought of Ava in pain makes Karen feel desperate, some animal part of her gone feral. She would do anything to keep her daughter safe. Kill anyone—or die herself. Watching Frank kneel before the graves of his other two children— _fuck._ She honestly doesn’t know how he survived the loss of them. She isn’t sure she would, in his place.

Her fingers settle on his shoulder and she squeezes lightly. He reaches up, covering her hand with his. It’s a silent little exchange, and one she knows they both understand.

They sit with the graves for a few minutes; Frank remains silent, but she has the feeling he’s talking to them, regardless. Finally, he rises to his feet, touches the headstones one last time, and leave the flowers. Together, they walk away. Karen wraps an arm around his waist, holding on tight.

“Lisa and Frankie would have liked Ava,” he says quietly. “Frankie wanted another sibling, because he wanted someone he could boss around.” He smiles a little. “Lisa liked being a big sister—at least until Frankie drove her up the wall. Then it was all-out war. She’d line up dinosaurs outside of his room so he’d accidentally step on them. They were goddamn sharp. Then Frankie would drive that toy car of his at her—trying to run over her toes. I’d hear Maria tell them to take it outside.”

Karen laughs. “Kevin and I used to throw rubber bands at one another. You know—snap them across the room. One time I nearly took his eye out, and did we get told off.” She leans a little against him and his arm tightens around her.

They decided a while back that Ava won’t be getting any siblings. As much as they both love her, the though of another child is overwhelming. And Karen likes her little family the way it is. “You miss not being close to this?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Maybe it’s stupid, because I know they’re not here, but it feels like I’ve abandoned them.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says. They haven’t ever visited Fagan Corners, and part of her aches at the thought. She wishes she could visit Kevin and her mom’s graves, maybe see her father. He’s never met his granddaughter, doesn’t even know she exists. As far as he’s concerned, Karen Page drowned in the Hudson. Madani did her best to tweak the narrative, to make it less lurid. The story has all of the trappings of a folktale: the Punisher hiding out with the reporter that helped out at his trial, and then some kind of explosion at the docks. At least the hospital attack was attributed to Poindexter. Frank was right about all of the Bonnie and Clyde stuff; Madani confided a year ago that there was some journalist who wanted to do an entire podcast on the Punisher, but Madani managed to get it shut down as a matter of national security. “You,” she told Frank one night, “are a continual pain in my ass even when you’re dead.”

(Frank smiled and offered her another glass of wine.

Karen likes that they’re friends.)

They return to Curt’s apartment. Curt and Ava are still at the zoo; Curt texts Frank a picture of Ava pointing at a tropical bird as if trying to command it to do her bidding. “She’s going to hate us for taking her away from this,” says Karen, with a rueful laugh. “When we go home and all she has are seagulls again.”

Frank leans against the kitchen counter. He has refilled the coffee maker, and the smell wafts pleasantly through the air. “You think about moving back here?”

“Sometimes,” Karen admits. “But—but I don’t think I’d ever consider it. Not seriously.”

“Too much history?” he says.

“A little.” She shrugs. “And I still wouldn’t trust it. I mean—all the weird shit that goes down in the world always seems to happen in places like this. Alien invasions, killer robots, all the usual.”

“The fact that alien invasions and killer robots are usual things is fucked up,” says Frank, with a shake of his head.

“At least in Washington all we have to worry about are tsunamis, earthquakes, and the occasional meth lab,” says Karen.

Frank pours two cups of coffee and hands one to her. “So you don’t miss New York?”

Karen glances out of the window, gazes at the skyline. She knows how that air tastes, how the traffic sounds, how the heartbeat of the city feels like a steady, intoxicating beat.

“Yes,” she says. “And no.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I miss the city sometimes,” she says. “The convenience, the food, my friends. The sense that this was where the pulse of the world could be found. But there are some things I’d never give up, not even for this.”

“And what would those things be?” he says.

She exhales, smiling a little as she tilts her head enough to kiss him.

He knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was one of those that was SUPPOSED to be a one-shot and look what happened. Thanks for reading!!


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